


100,000 Galleons

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (sort of), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Harry, Dirty Talk, Draco's bad at Muggle things, Falling In Love, He keeps trying though, Humor, M/M, Oblivious Harry, Oral Sex, Pining, Rimming, Seduction, Travel, Voyeurism, light D/s elements, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 10:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: When a weekend with Harry gets purchased at a Bachelor charity auction by Malfoy, he's sure the trip is going to be filled with disaster.And it is.  It really is.Just... maybe not in the ways he thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to JK Rowling and associated publishers. 
> 
> So many thanks and much adoration go out to magpie_fangirl for the preread, the beta, and the suggestions. She's amazing in all things. <3

Harry tugged on his tie in the futile attempt to straighten it. Allowing Hermione to dress him had seemed like a good idea at the time. But he’d rather assumed that, knowing him, she’d pick something more casual, and perhaps with more room--like a comfortable set of semi-formal robes.

It never occurred to him she’d put him in a sleek, Muggle, designer tuxedo. Of course, the whole thing was Muggle-themed, so perhaps it should have.

He’d checked himself from all angles before Apparating, and could acknowledge, at least, that he didn’t look really _bad_. His hair was a bit useless, as always, but the inky material of the tux looked pretty nice against his skin. It was simply far too tight, particularly in seat of the black silk trousers. The fit of the waistcoat was a bit snug, as well, but Hermione assured him that showing off his “trim waistline,” it would highlight his “broad chest and shoulders,” and made him promise to take off his dinner jacket halfway through his walk on the small, modified runway. He’d rolled his eyes at her at the time, but knew he would end up doing it no matter how stupid it was; she was completely convinced that his surprise addition to the auction would put the charity to raise money for the Muggles affected by the War over the top. 

Personally, Harry didn’t think he was needed. Hermione had volunteered herself and Ron, too—separately, even—for the auction, and the charity organizers estimated each of them would go for a decent Knut. And of course, there were many others: Neville had been wrangled into it, same as Harry; Luna had volunteered; Ginny had practically demanded her name be added to the list. Kingsley offered an hour from his busy schedule for an official meeting to discuss anything the winning bidder wanted, and even McGonagall had gotten over a thousand galleons for contributing a parent/Headmistress conference to the auction to discuss their child’s skills and her opinion of where their focus should be.

Still, he _had_ agreed (though grudgingly), and it was Hermione, which was enough to make him stick to his word even as he felt the flush of oncoming humiliation as he watched the price climb on her while she walked down the elevated stage wearing an evening gown in periwinkle blue. Her face was a bit fixed—Harry supposed she minded being bid on more than she thought she would, even for a simple dinner in a public restaurant—but she smiled gamely as the auctioneer closed after the winning bid of eight thousand Galleons. 

Ron was next—the organisation had saved the three of them for last—and Harry stopped paying attention as the auctioneer began his spiel to detail the circumstances of their date and praise Ron for his War efforts. Hermione walked off the stage and greeted her bidder with a warm handshake, then headed over to Harry, nudging him in the shoulder and releasing an exasperated breath.

“Well. That was more bracing than I imagined,” she admitted. Harry handed her a flute of champagne, which she took a grateful swallow from. 

“It’s just a dinner, right? In public?” he asked, taking a sip of his own and slanting her a worried glance. Merlin knew Hermione was fully capable of taking care of herself, but some secret part of him (that he would _never_ admit to her even _existed_ after her last lecture on the subject) still worried about her, just a bit.

“Yes, mine's just a public dinner,” she said with a subtle eyeroll. “Ron’s, too. And the bidders have all signed magically-binding contracts to pledge our safety. They’re not allowed to harm us in any way.”

Reassured, he glanced at her again. Smiled. “You look really pretty tonight.”

Her complexion reddened becomingly. “Thank you." She cast him an affectionate look, her eyes roving assessingly. “People are going to go mad over you in that.”

He looked down at himself. “It’s too tight.”

Hermione gave an inelegant snort, and took another sip of her drink. “Like I said.”

The auctioneer finally finished with his promotion of Ron, who was wearing a sharp navy three-piece suit, and the bidding began. Harry's mind caught on something she'd said before. “Wait, what did you mean that _yours and Ron’s_ are just dinners?”

Hermione stared at Ron onstage, unblinking for a moment.

“Hermione?”

She flinched a little and bit her lip.

“Hermione!”

Finally, she looked back up at him, guilt etched across her features. “It’s for a really good cause, Harry.”

Harry huffed and opened his mouth to argue, but the auctioneer rang out with Ron’s final price—8,400 Galleons, just barely edging out Hermione’s high price of the night—and the resulting applause was too loud to speak over. Hermione slid fractionally away from him, darting shamefaced glances in his direction. 

The auctioneer, an older wizard named Elliot, held out hands to quiet the crowd and, after several excited moments, the buzz of noise began to fade. 

“Now,” Elliot intoned, magnifying his voice with a gentle _Sonorus_. “I’d like to present our final auction of the night. Many of you have, I’m sure, gleaned from our little tidbit in the _Prophet_ last night that we would have a special bachelor available to bid on and if you guessed as much—you weren’t wrong,” he announced smoothly. 

Harry gave Hermione a frantic look. She smiled weakly at him and lifted her glass to her mouth. 

“I hope some of you have kept solvent this evening. I’d like to remind each bidder that the bid itself is magically binding and that the winning bid amount will be transferred immediately out of your Gringott’s vault,” Elliot continued. “So, without further ado, I’d like to present to you our last bachelor of the night, Mister Harry Potter!”

A sudden spotlight blinded Harry from where he stood to the left of the stage. Then Hermione gave him a little shove. It made him stumble a bit, but also reminded him that he knew how to work his limbs and was supposed to use them. Warily, he climbed the stairs onto the stage to the sound of gasps in the crowd and the huge buzz of shocked voices. 

When he reached the podium, the spotlight, thankfully, faded. Elliot turned to him to give him a practiced smile. Harry pasted one of his own over his features and nodded to Elliot, who turned back to the crowd.

“Harry Potter, like our last two generous guests, needs no introduction,” Elliot said over the noise, and the mob began to quiet again, staring up at Harry in a hungry way that made him even more nervous. “But we won't let that stop us,” he added, to everyone’s general amusement. He gave Harry an encouraging, jerked nod toward the runway and Harry began his slow walk.

“This bid includes three days and four nights at a luxury Wizarding resort in a tropical location,” Elliot recited behind him. _Three days and four nights_? Harry made a mental note to yell at Hermione. “The holiday will include all meals taken togetherand an assortment of activities which Mister Potter has also—very generously—agreed to join his bidder in.”

Yelling wasn’t good enough, Harry decided, even as he peeled off his jacket to the hoots and hollers from the sea of people below him. This called for murder. Obviously, it would make him sad to lose one of his best friends but the good thing about Hermione was that she was usually prepared for anything. Harry would make it quick.

He hooked the collar of his jacket over two fingers and swung it up over his shoulder as he reached the end of the stage. He looked down at a middle-aged witch; she was staring up at him with a gaping expression. At his tentative smile, she promptly fainted into the arms of her female companion, who caught her friend even as she started laughing and yelled upward, “Less competition for me!”

Harry spun on the smooth heel of his shiny, uncomfortable shoe and began walking back toward the podium as he’d been instructed. 

Elliot was still talking. “…that famous scar to look at across from every meal for days! Voted by _Witch Weekly_ for four years running to be the Sexiest Wizard Alive, the lucky winning witch or wizard will be able to partake in all planned events with the Saviour himself, and _any_ additional activities that you both explicitly consent to,” Elliot added slyly. “You will, of course, have adjoining suites, if both of you decide you’d like to play a game of Exploding Snap in the middle of the night.”

Harry heard multiple gasps and an outright scream from behind him. His face, already warm, flamed hotter. The insinuation, he’d almost expected. The reactions were harder. He'd never get used to the idea of being thought of as... as... someone with whom people wanted to play middle-of-the-night Exploding Snap. 

Harry pulled to a halt next to Elliot and turned around again, and the Elliot waggled his rather poufy eyebrows at him with glee. Harry hitched up a shoulder awkwardly, but reinforced his smile. His face muscles were starting to hurt, so he began to chant in his head to relax himself. _Good cause, good cause, good cause. Kill Hermione, good cause, good cause._

Elliot held his palms up to the crowd again and after several moments, they fell silent. “So who will choose the Chosen one tonight? We’ll start the bidding at 10,000 Galleons.”

Harry blinked. He turned his head to search for Hermione and, upon finally finding her off to the side, noted that she looked just as astonished as he felt. She and Ron, the two most expensive bids of the night, had only begun at five thousand. No one was going to offer ten.

But even as that thought flitted through his mind, a loud feminine voice called out “Fifteen!” from across the hall, and raised her wand, which glowed pink. Another witch, slightly younger, countered at twenty, and then a wizard who looked vaguely familiar, like a Quidditch player he couldn’t quite place, upped the bid to thirty thousand.

After that, the increments crept up more slowly, from thirty thousand to thirty-five, then seven, then nine. But the bids continued, a rapid-fire battle over who got to go away on holiday with Harry and potentially molest him. In no time, there were only three bidders left: the younger, attractive witch, the possible-Quidditch player, and an older wizard with a close-cropped beard. The athlete’s face had twisted in disgust or anger by the time the bid reached sixty-thousand, and Harry felt a twinge of relief when he dropped out. He examined the other two carefully. The witch looked earnest and sweet; he probably wouldn’t mind being around her for a few days. The wizard looked steady and calm, raising his wand every few moments. Probably a fine option as well, as far as things went.

Releasing a little sigh of relief, Harry let his hunched shoulders come down. The bidding was circling an outrageous seventy-thousand Galleons, but was only rising by five-hundred Galleons each time, now. Harry tried to remember what Hermione’s goal had been for the night; he was pretty sure it had been fifty thousand, which the organisation had most likely met before he’d even gotten on stage.

Elliot repeated the last bid of seventy-two thousand, five-hundred, and the witch wavered, her face dropping with disappointment. The bearded wizard, noticing this, let his expression break open in excitement.

“Going once,” Elliot announced, “Going twice…”

“One hundred thousand Galleons!” a low, posh, all-too-familiar voice called out from the back of the room. Harry gulped, his blood running cold even as Elliot responded with an enthusiastic, “Sold!”

There was a flurry of gasps and a smattering of applause, and the crowd parted to reveal the person Harry knew, in the most horrified recesses of his soul, would be standing there: Malfoy. 

Because, of course. 

Malfoy was wearing a tuxedo as well, but he'd either loosened his tie or left it undone. It hung around his neck, a few of his buttons open at the collar to reveal his throat and collarbone and the barest hint of his chest. He lazily dangled a champagne flute down near his thigh and looked up at Harry with a slow, triumphant grin.

Harry twitched. 

His mind moved sluggishly—why the _fuck_ would Malfoy bid—why would he spend—they barely interacted since— It had to just be the strangest goddamn dream he’d ever had.

But no, Malfoy was slowly working his way through the parting crowd up to the stage. Harry could hear the swell of voices as they put together the winning bidder with his actual identity, and even Elliot looked a little sallow. He walked off the stage to the rest of the group of organisers of the charity—including Hermione—and started talking in fast, quiet tones; probably checking on the legality or wisdom of having just sold The Chosen One to a former Death Eater. 

Malfoy reached the stage. Numbly, Harry walked over to the edge of it and looked down at him. “What the hell, Malfoy?”

Malfoy shrugged. His smile was a little loose around the edges, his silver eyes bright as they roamed deliberately over Harry’s body from his vantage height of Harry’s crotch. He held out a distracted hand.

Flushing when Malfoy looked again at his groin, Harry took the proffered hand—it was surprisingly warm and strong, for all its manicured appearance—and hopped off the stage. 

“Potter,” Malfoy murmured, raising a single eyebrow.

“What the hell?” Harry demanded again, more firmly. 

Malfoy snorted and drained the last of his champagne. “Well. Serves me right, I suppose. At least it’ll be interesting,” he said cryptically, then gave Harry a slow nod and a lingering glance before turning around and walking away.

Harry watched him go with utter disbelief. There was no possible reason for Malfoy, of all people, to want to go on holiday with him. Unless he was plotting something nefarious, which—okay, might make sense for the Malfoy at Hogwarts five years ago, but didn’t fit with the Malfoy he knew of recently.

He thought of Malfoy’s gaze, strangely warm and steady as it slid over him, and his eyes found Malfoy’s retreating form before he left the hall. They dropped, of their own accord, to the curve of Malfoy's backside, and Harry grimaced.

Well, shit.

Ron and Hermione reached his side, and Harry dragged his eyes away from Malfoy’s arguably perfect arse to look at them. 

“I’m so sorry, Harry!” Hermione breathed out, brown eyes huge in her face. 

Harry glanced at Ron. “You might want to make your goodbyes now, since you’re so fond of her,” he informed him, and Ron snorted.

“Because _either of us_ have ever been able to resist her, any more than she’s denied us one of our schemes,” Ron said meaningfully. 

“Because either of us have ever asked her to go on an intimate holiday with Draco bloody Malfoy,” Harry shot back, snagging another glass of champagne from a passing server. 

“Point.”

Hermione looked upset. “I should have told you what your package included before you volunteered,” she said, lacing her hands together and locking pleading eyes on him. “But there are still so many Muggles—”

Harry sighed, choosing not to take issue with her loose definition of the word _volunteer_. “It’s okay, ‘Mione. I mean, yeah, you should have told me. At least I wouldn’t have been so damned shocked up there—”

“I thought you might not agree and we really needed—”

Harry frowned at her. “When have I _ever_ said no to something you needed?”

Hermione smiled tentatively. “I _am_ sorry, though. I won’t do it again.”

“Give it six months; she’ll make us pose naked in a calendar or something,” Ron muttered under his breath, and Harry flashed a smile at him. Ron grinned back. “Malfoy, though. He’d better not be planning something.”

Harry looked suspiciously over at the door Malfoy had exited from. “It seemed like… a whim. I think he might have actually been drunk,” he said, remembering the slightly wobbly smile Malfoy had given him. Remembering the crinkle at the edge of his eyes that came with it. “Or maybe he was just trying to seem it, so I’d lower my guard around him.”

Hermione made a non-committal sound. “Well, I’ve talked it over with the charity counsel, and his bid is binding. But maybe he won’t show up or something, and you’ll just get to have a nice vacation, all on your own.”

“Maybe,” Harry said. His mind churned briefly. “But Ron’s right. He must be up to _something_ , right? We’d become—friendly, last year, and then started acting like I didn’t exist, remember? I barely see him now. The last time was _weeks_ ago; we ran into each other at Diagon Alley. He was, well, Malfoy. Brushed me off when I asked after his mum.”

“We _know_ , Harry,” Ron said, voice heavy with irony. Harry scowled. He didn’t talk about Malfoy as often as he used to; he knew he didn’t. Just from time to time, when he saw Malfoy, in person or in the paper. Or when Hermione mentioned running into him at work. Or when he was going over a case-file that had ties to Death Eaters or Dark Magic or purebloods.

Harry winced. Okay, so there was a _possibility_ he still brought up Malfoy with fair frequency.

Hermione hummed a little and gave him a tentative smile. “Maybe the bid was his way of trying to make it up to you?”

“I’d have settled for a two-galleon drink,” Harry mused, then frowned. Malfoy had even offered to meet him for one, once, then hadn’t shown up. He tried not to let his mind supply him with images of Malfoy’s trouser-clad arse and other ideas of how Malfoy could repent for his rudeness. “Not that he cares what I think. And it’s not as if he doesn’t see you; he could have asked you to say something. 

Hermione went quiet for a moment, considering. “Perhaps he just wants to get away.”

“How much did the vacation package run?” Ron interjected.

“Mmm. I think four thousand or so, but a lot of it was comped for the charity and because Harry’s name was attached,” Hermione said.

“Well, he could have just bought that, right?” Ron said logically. Hermione leaned against him and exhaled loudly. 

She took Harry’s half-drunk champagne from his hand and lifted it to her mouth, finishing it off. “You’ll be safe,” she assured him. “There’s no possible way he can be planning something to hurt you. From the time the Portkey activates to the time you come home, the contracts state that you’re protected from any harmful activity he directs at you and vice versa. Read it—it should make you feel more comfortable. And Harry,” she added gently, “it’s not as if you haven’t been attracted to him for a long time.”

Harry cringed and his eyes shot up to Ron’s, who was looking as though a Bludger had just hit him in the temple. 

“I never said that,” he defended weakly.

Hermione gave a dry little laugh. “There are a lot of different ways to _say_ something, Harry.”

Finally Ron, made a cracked, bleating sound. His throat was working hard. “’Mione, that’s not…” He looked at Harry again imploringly. “That’s not…?”

Not knowing how to respond, Harry glared at him, then at Hermione. Then, for good measure, Elliot, who was still looking smug by the stage. His cheeks were hot again.

Ron gusted out a heavy sigh and muttered, “ _gross_ ,” before raising his voice and saying, “Well, Hermione says he’s different than he used to be.” He forced a pained smile.

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry growled, mad at Hermione for taking the last of his drink. For everything, really. How long had it been so obvious?

“It’ll be okay, Harry,” Hermione said after a momentary pause. “He’s good with patients, and—” She broke off; shrugged. “He really does seem different.”

Not with me, Harry thought. But he made a vague noise of assent as his eyes lingered at the empty doorway. At the very, _very_ least, he wouldn’t be spending the whole time answering daft questions about the war and squirming out of clumsy come-ons. It had been a few years since school, but Harry felt comfortable enough dealing with Malfoy’s brand of snotty, imperious behaviour. Worst case (he hoped), he’d ignore Malfoy the entire time.

“We’ll see, I guess,” he said, giving up, then tried to put it out of his mind.

For the next two days, at least.

***

When Harry woke up, it was to the sunlight flooding over his face and a strange, twisting sensation in his midsection. He rolled over and realised that his curtain charm had faded in his sleep. He looked around curiously.

It had been late when he’d arrived in Maui the previous night and Portkey travel always left him feeling sluggish, so he had fallen face-first onto the massive bed after checking in and tumbled into sleep without even bothering to check his surroundings. The room was large and airy, very tropical in style with gauzy white curtains over the windows and wallpaper with tiny green palm fronds on them that swayed soothingly. A bit more relaxed than the downstairs indicated; the hotel seemed small and private on the outside, covered in Muggle-repelling charms, but the lobby was massive once he stepped into it, vast, with peach marbled floors and counters and crystal chandeliers that reflected light. There were restaurants and boutiques and pubs and cafes, all surrounding the cavernous hall, plush benches in the middle of it, and gold-gilt lifts at the end of each hallway.

He thought about it for a moment—perhaps that’s why Malfoy had bid; the hotel seemed like the sort of fancy place he’d prefer—before stumbling out of bed. He swallowed on the way and winced at the sour taste in his mouth, casting multiple breath-freshening charms before using the facilities and taking a quick shower.

The coil of discomfort in his stomach tightened as he dressed afterward. Confused, he cast a quick _Tempus_ charm and found that it was almost eight in the morning. He was probably just hungry.

He glanced at the door conntecting his room to Malfoy’s and considered knocking on it for a moment before shrugging and heading downstairs. He’d run into Malfoy sooner or later, and after the note he’d left at the front desk for when Harry arrived (“See you in the morning, Potter”; only vaguely warning in tone), he’d just as soon as it be later.

The knots in his stomach began to loosen as the lift took him down to the lobby, and he made his way to the first restaurant available, a small café off to the right. His eyes immediately snagged on the white-blond head leaning down and reading something, a coffee mug raised to his mouth, and Harry realized that the tension in his belly had completely eased. For lack of anything else to do, he glared at the floor for a moment before heading over to join Malfoy.

Damn Hermione.

Malfoy looked up as Harry slid into the booth across from him. Forgoing greetings, Harry picked up his menu and snapped, “How aware were you that I’d have a physical reaction if I didn’t attend one of meals? Or, I’m guessing, the activities on the itinerary?”

Malfoy blinked. “Not at all, actually, although it makes perfect sense. I did spend a lot of money on you.”

“Yes, but why?” Harry tapped his wand on menu over a selection of eggs and bacon and toast, with a waffle on the side. As an afterthought, he added coffee as well. “You don’t even _talk_ to me when we run into each other in public.”

Malfoy shrugged, his eyes sliding away. “Don’t you ever feel the need to just—amuse yourself, Potter? Don’t you ever get tired of doing the right thing, day in and day out, and never getting to play?”

Harry’s mouth tightened and he glared across the table. “You know nothing about me. I play with myself all the time. I mean, with Ron and Hermione. I mean, I—” He stopped. Malfoy met his eyes again, his nostrils flaring in an obvious effort not to laugh. Harry cleared his throat, reaching for some dignity. “I just mean—I _like_ doing the _right thing_. Some of us don’t even need to have what that is explained to us.”

The humorous tilt to Malfoy’s mouth faded; his expression flatted out. Harry felt abruptly guilty—Malfoy had done a lot to make up for his role in the war and despite still apparently disliking Harry enough to drag him out to the middle of nowhere for no good reason, he didn’t deserve that.

“Sorry. I—I guess I’m just confused, Malfoy. The last couple of times I’ve run in to you, you haven’t been the most… friendly,” Harry fumbled out. His food and drink appeared before him with a soft pop and he grasped at the coffee gratefully. 

“ _You_ try being friendly to you,” Malfoy muttered. Under his breath he added, “ _It’s like handing someone a pile of ingredients and telling them to make a potion with no instruction_.”

“What?” Baffled, Harry stared at him. He wondered if it was an insult and, if so, why it was such a _weird_ one. Malfoy was usually much better at them. “Why do you need to make a potion?”

“I’m not making a potion.” Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“But you just said—”

“I didn’t say anything. Nevermind. Have you looked at the itinerary?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, but let Malfoy slither away from explaining. “No, I pretty much passed out when I arrived. I’m assuming, though, that my free time is actually _free_ when we don’t have something scheduled?”

Malfoy snorted. “I’d ask Granger, but I suppose that’s probably a safe bet. Hating my company already, Potter?” he enquired lightly. 

Bizarrely enough, Harry wasn’t. It was frustrating, sure, to not know what Malfoy’s angle was, but he hadn’t really been rude yet, not even once. Just—sort of absurd. 

“What do we have on the line-up today?” he asked instead of answering.

“Hiking,” Malfoy told him blandly.

Harry felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Hiking? Just—hiking? To a magical cave or something?”

Malfoy shook his head; a slip of blond hair flew into his eye. “Just hiking. To a regular waterfall.”

Harry couldn’t figure out which of his million incredulous questions to settle on first. Randomly, he picked, “Muggle hiking?” He paused. “In the jungle?” Then: “ _You_ hike?”

“I’ve been informed that _hiking_ is actually something called _walking_ , Potter, which I’ve been able to do fairly well for the last twenty years,” Malfoy scoffed in haughty tones. When Harry snorted in response, Malfoy smiled and casually stole a piece of his toast.

Like they were friends or something.

***

“Are you trying to tell me,” Harry said, staring down at where Malfoy was wheezing, bent over at the stomach, “That you deliberately forewent the offered guide?”

Malfoy looked up at him, his normally pale face bright red and dripping with sweat. Harry was hot and uncomfortable too, but for someone who certainly looked to be in pretty great physical shape, Malfoy seemed to have a lot of trouble traversing the uneven ground and the mild hills in the section of jungle he’d led them into. Unfortunately, his usual elegance seemed to be lacking once he’d been deposited into nature. It might be that he was wearing tasselled loafers.

“I thought you must have _some_ experience,” Malfoy admitted, still a bit breathless. Harry felt a twinge of sympathy. Malfoy had tripped and fallen over at least three times so far, the weight of his pack apparently awkward on his shoulders. The knee of his linen trousers was torn and his skin underneath was staunchly oozing blood. But at every offer Harry made—to heal his knee; to Shrink his backpack; even, hell, to Transfigure his clothing in to something more comfortable like the cargo shorts and t-shirt Harry had picked rather than the trousers and long-sleeved button-down Malfoy had on—Malfoy stubbornly refused. 

“Why? Because I spent six months lost in the Forest of Dean?” Harry asked wryly. “Does that seem like a particularly successful hike to you?”

Malfoy glared at him. “Well, from everything I’ve read, frankly, yes.”

Surprised, Harry lent a hand to help Malfoy stand upright again. Grudgingly, Malfoy took it and allowed himself to be led over to a large rock, which he collapsed onto with a grunt. Harry drew off his pack and dropped it on the ground, sitting down on the mossy, dirt path. He hunted through his bag for a moment before pulling out a bottle of water and handing it over, then watched, curiously, as Malfoy’s throat worked silently as he took long drinks from it.

“From _everything_ you’ve read?” Harry repeated carefully.

Malfoy’s face stilled. He flapped a bored hand. “It’s impossible to read anything in the _Prophet_ without some profile on you.”

Harry frowned and thought about it. “The Prophet never talked about it except to advertise for Skeeter’s book, _Potter’s Final Stand_. And even then, she got most of the details wrong.”

Scowling, Malfoy looked away. “Did you or did you not successfully hide from the Dark Lord for months while you were there? Did you or did you not live off of nuts and berries and—I don’t know, twigs—when you couldn’t find any real food? I simply must have heard the rest of the details from Granger or something.”

Harry cracked a startled laugh. “Because you and Hermione stand around in the breakroom talking about me,” he said flatly. “You don’t even like her.”

Malfoy’s lips thinned. “Well, I’m no longer calling her a Mudblood and she’s no longer hitting me in the face, so I’d say we’re in a better place than we were in school. I like her fine, Potter. She’s…”

“Brilliant?” Harry ventured when Malfoy seemed to forget he was talking.

Wrinkling his nose in a way that resembled a sneer but was somehow friendlier, Malfoy finally said, “Authoritative. Smart, too, I suppose.”

Harry chuckled. “She’s your boss, right?”

Malfoy puffed up, offended. “She most certainly is not!” he objected. “Did she tell you she was?”

“No, I just—”

“Because she isn’t. She has seniority but she’s not even in my department, Potter." Malfoy sniffed. “She’s in Spell Damage and I’m in Curse Damage. Curse Damage is more intricate. Two entirely different sections of the hospital.”

“Entirely,” Harry echoed with a smirk. Malfoy’s grey eyes darkened. 

“It _is_ ,” Malfoy insisted. When Harry’s smirk grew into a smile, Malfoy gave a heavily put-upon sigh and changed the subject. “So you’re telling me you don’t know how to read a Muggle map?”

“I usually just rely on _Point Me_ ,” Harry admitted. 

“Oh.” Malfoy went quiet, picking at the torn knee of his trousers. “I was under the impression that you liked—did—Muggle things.”

Frowning, Harry looked at Malfoy’s knee again. He pulled his wand from his pocket and leaned forward to tap the scrape gently, then watched as the skin knit itself back together.

“I do like-do Muggle things,” he said at last, ignoring Malfoy’s swift intake of breath as his knee healed. “But sometimes it’s easier with magic, right? I’ve never said it wasn’t.”

He looked up and met Malfoy’s gaze. Malfoy’s expression was inscrutable. 

“You were raised by Muggles.”

Harry snickered. “And trust me, if they had been the only example of Muggles I’d ever been exposed to, I might’ve signed up for Voldemort’s side. Well, probably not,” he allowed fairly. His shoulders tightened as he thought about it. “But they were pretty awful.”

Malfoy looked like he wanted to ask for details, his head crooking to one side. Harry braced himself for a taunt or some sort of intrusive line of questioning, but then Malfoy simply nodded to his knee. “Thank you, that was well done.”

“Just a scrape. Certainly nothing so complicated as _Curse Damage_ ,” Harry said solemnly, a flutter of surprised pleasure pitching in his stomach when Malfoy laughed. Those crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes again and his smile flashed, warm and wide. 

“We can’t all be as talented as me,” Malfoy said lightly, raising one suggestive eyebrow, and Harry’s grin faded as the implications roared through his head. 

“I’ve no doubt,” Harry replied, voice lower than he’d intended.

They stared at each other. The curtain of trees and vines created strange shadows on the sharp, patrician curves of Malfoy’s face, feathering him with a muted sort of light where the sun broke through. He looked good like this, Harry realised with some trepidation. Like someone Harry would actually want to know. Like someone who might actually want to know him.

He swallowed hard, trying to come to terms with the fact that he might, in fact, be attracted to Malfoy’s personality on top of his lanky form. And also trying not to think in what other areas Malfoy might be talented.

Malfoy’s chest rose and fell lightly under his button-down as he looked back at Harry. He opened his mouth, closed it promptly, then did it again. After a moment, he looked away and whatever he’d been about to say was lost to the humidity and thousands of shades of green around them. 

“I think I’ll take you up on your offer, then,” Malfoy said after a moment, clearing his throat.

Startled, Harry wondered if he’d been speaking out loud. His mouth went dry. “Offer?”

Malfoy ticked him another glance, wary and casual all at once. “It might be okay if we Shrunk our bags.”

“Oh. Yeah, absolutely,” Harry agreed with relief. He made short work of it, stuffing both of the bags in his pocket. He hesitated. “Can I work on your trousers, too?”

“Feel free to do anything you want to my trousers, Potter,” Malfoy murmured. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Then Malfoy added, “Anything that will make this damned hike more manageable.”

“Right, yeah.” Harry quickly Transfigured Malfoy’s clothing into beige cargo shorts and a form-fitting white t-shirt. He maybe got a little carried away but when it was done, the shirt was tightly fitted over Malfoy’s leanly muscled shoulders. Harry bit his lip, flushing, then spelled Malfoy’s shoes into sturdy hiking boots. “Fit is fine?”

Malfoy looked down at himself, then lifted his head to give Harry a smile that curled to one side. “A bit tight, but that’s all right. I fit into practically anything.”

Harry heard more than felt his own gulp. He stood nervously. “It’s, ah, getting really thick—the air, I mean. We should probably try to find that waterfall.”

Malfoy rose from the rock and gave a shrug. He pulled his wand from his pocket, laid it flat in his hand and cast the Four-Point Spell. His wand spun briefly before halting, pointing in a direction off the wide path they were on, to a veil of hanging vines. Harry brushed it aside and looked; there was another path behind it, partially obscured by the flora, much narrower than their own. He glanced behind him and, at Malfoy’s slow nod, proceeded onward.

Malfoy followed him and, in boots, managed to keep up this time. They walked for another half hour until the sound of rushing water hit Harry’s ears. “It’s up ahead,” he told Malfoy without turning around. He picked up the pace.

“Thank Merlin,” Malfoy muttered, practically running behind him. 

They broke through huge wall of palm fronds and Harry skid to a stop. He looked around in wonder. 

The waterfall was small, no more than twelve feet in height, pouring off smooth black rocks into a pool of deep blue water that glittered like a jewel in the shafts of sunlight coming through. The air was immediately cooler close to the hidden lagoon and Harry felt disconcertingly like he was in a bottled Atmospheric charm. Everything was serene and lovely and soothing, from the splash of the falls into the pool to the shades of greens and blues and blacks surrounding them. 

“Wow,” Malfoy said blankly, giving Harry a start. He’d forgotten about his presence for a moment.

“Yeah.”

“Worth the terrible concept of hiking, I’d say,” Malfoy mused, moving closer. 

“I thought hiking was just walking, Malfoy,” Harry said, keeping in step with him until they were at the base of the mossy rocks surrounding the pool. He watched, flummoxed, as Malfoy peeled off his sweaty t-shirt, knelt down, and dipped it in the water. He lifted it to his face, then draped it around his neck. 

“Feels good.”

“Wha-?” Harry said. Rather articulately, he thought, for being faced with the long length of Malfoy’s lean back, the dip in his pale spine, and the way his arse flexed under his shorts. 

“The water,” Malfoy said, skimming his shirt in it again. He wrung it out with his long fingers and rubbed it over his throat. “It’s cold.”

He flicked an impatient glance up at Harry, who froze as Malfoy’s gaze caught at whatever he saw on Harry's face. Harry tried to school his expression into something neutral, but then Malfoy nodded to his t-shirt and said softly, “You should try it. You look warm.”

Haltingly, Harry stripped his own shirt off his head. Some distant corner of his brain reminded him that they were wizards and could easily perform cooling charms on their skin, but the water looked refreshing, and his shirt was clinging to him unpleasantly and Malfoy was looking at him like—

Harry knelt down slowly next to him, leaning over to drag his shirt through the water. He gave it a quick wring, letting the excess drip off, and pulled off his glasses to pat his face with it, his chest, the back of his neck.

“Better?” Malfoy said, still looking at him with that level expression. 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. He replaced his glasses and glanced over.

Malfoy nodded. “We could go swimming in it.”

“I didn’t bring swim trunks.”

Slanting him a wicked glance, Malfoy said, “Neither did I.”

“Er.” Honestly, there was no way of removing his shorts right now without embarrassing himself.

Malfoy laughed. “Or we could just eat. It’s what we came here for, remember?”

Unsure whether he was disappointed or relieved, Harry blew out a breath. He scrambled off the rock and pulled their packs from his pocket, Unshrinking them. The hotel had provided a full spread, all of the food carefully packaged in warming stasis bubbles. Harry began pulling out the selections as Malfoy hunted through his own pack and pulled out a red and white checkered blanket that seemed to be imbued with cushioning charms. He spread it out on the flat face of the rock at the edge of the pool and unloaded plates and utensils and napkins. 

“Merlin, I’m starving,” Harry said, hunting through the food before picking roast beef with carrots and mashed potatoes. “Hermione says lunch is the most important meal of the day.”

Malfoy nodded, selecting the rosemary chicken and squash. “Because sleep helps you through the first few hours, and food picks you back up when you begin to lag.”

Harry choked on a mouthful of beef. Malfoy had not only managed to repeat the rest of Hermione’s advice, verbatim, but had done a pretty good impression of her bossy tones, as well. “Is that something they teach you when you go through Healer training?”

Malfoy hesitated. “It’s common sense. Although I may have overheard her taking Weasley to task in the cafeteria for not having lunch one day.”

“That doesn’t sound like Ron,” Harry said, tucking into his food again. Malfoy shrugged. 

They ate in silence for a while, looking out over the water. Eventually, Malfoy Banished his plate back into his pack with a replete sigh and leaned back on his hands. He spread his legs out in front of himself, crossing them at the ankle. They were pale, like the rest of him, Harry noted, but the coarse hair covering his shins and calves was more golden than he would have expected. Malfoy shifted and Harry looked away, finishing his meal and Banishing his own plate.

“Are you ever going to tell me why you bid on me?” Harry asked at length.

Malfoy cast a slightly drowsy look in his direction that made Harry’s heart speed up. “I needed a vacation. It was a good cause.”

“Right, but you could have bid on anyone—anything they offered. Or donated it outright. Or just taken a vacation, for a lot less than you spent. Or—”

“Relax, Potter. I’m not planning on _murdering_ you if that's what you're worrying about.”

“I didn’t really think you were,” Harry admitted. 

“But you assume I’m up to something,” Malfoy said in that same lazy tone.

“Aren’t you always?” 

Malfoy’s mouth drew up at the edges. “I will say the Sorting Hat got one right, with me,” he acknowledged. He fell silent again but held onto his maddening little grin.

Frustrated, Harry scowled at him. “Why me, though? What do you _want_?”

Malfoy looked at him, surprise writ across his normally composed features. He started laughing in a humourless sort of way. “I should have thought that’d be obvious by now, Potter. Buying you for the weekend isn’t _entirely_ subtle. And I’m willing to bet that you’re not quite as oblivious as I’ve always assumed.”

Harry bristled at the whole concept of being _bought_ , but felt heat start to climb up his neck again. “You can’t be serious.”

“As a Basilisk attack,” Malfoy said, sounding far grimmer than his smile indicated. 

Sputtering, Harry threw his hands in the air. “We’re not even _friends_.” He frowned. “You didn’t want to be.”

Malfoy hesitated. “That’s a prerequisite for you?”

Harry scoffed. “N-no. Maybe! Well, _I don’t know,_ do I? I’ve haven’t dated _that many_ people yet. Friend- _ly_ , at least!”

“But you like men,” Malfoy stated with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Everyone knows that now,” Harry said. This had to be one of the stranger conversations he’d ever had. 

“Everyone’s known it for a while,” Malfoy murmured. "You're remarkably brazen about your orientation for someone who can blush like you are now." He looked toward the water again. He went quiet for a long moment. Harry continued to stare at him, unable to drag his gaze elsewhere until this was settled. In profile, Malfoy’s face lost most of its sharp edges: the bridge of his nose was long and even; his chin looked softer; his forehead was high and furrowed in thought. Even his slender lips seemed fuller, pursed in contemplation as they were. 

“I thought it would be interesting,” Malfoy said at last. “We’d either get along or we wouldn’t. Either way, I’d come out of it entertained.”

Harry thought about that. It sounded honest enough, but he still felt like Malfoy was leaving something out. Possibly a great many things. “How did you know I wouldn’t just hex you?”

Malfoy spared him a pitying look. “The auction contract. Neither of us can hurt the other. ...non-consensually, of course.”

“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Harry mumbled, even as a dirty little thrill went through him. 

“Don’t. You should think about it,” Malfoy told him. His face was calm but there was an unsteady tremor in his voice. “I know you Gryffindors are the sort to rush to a conclusion right away, but we have a few days. I can wait for an answer.”

“But which part am I supposed to answer?” Harry asked sardonically. “The part where you didn’t _actually_ ask me to have sex with you or the part where you didn’t _actually_ ask me to engage in BDSM?”

Malfoy snorted, but he looked a positively delighted. “Frankly, I’m surprised you even know what that is. There’s hope for this trip yet, Potter. We should go.” He reached out his wand toward their shirts, drying them off, then twirled it a bit to send their remaining food and place settings back into their bags before Summoning their shirts. He caught his own while Harry, still stunned, felt the fabric of his hit him in the face. 

He jerked it on quickly. “I think we should stay and talk about this more.”

“Of course, you do,” Malfoy said, smirking. “Do you mind if we Apparate? I’m too full to walk. I think I’d like a kip.”

“Malfoy,” Harry blurted. Malfoy paused in the act of gathering and folding their blanket with his wand. 

“Nap, Potter. Like I said, we have a few days. And dinner. We have dinner tonight. Every night, actually.”

“You’ll answer my questions then?” 

Malfoy gave a non-committal shrug. “If they’re remotely interesting.”

Harry heard himself make a furious sound as Malfoy finished gathering everything and stepped close to him. Automatically, Harry tilted his chin up, feeling a jolt at seeing Malfoy’s cheek so close to his face. 

“Malfoy,” he said again, but Malfoy refused to meet his eyes.

He simply took Harry’s arm and, without warning, Disapparated them back to the hotel.

***

Harry woke up from his nap feeling slightly groggy, alerted into consciousness by a strangled noise.

After watching Malfoy stride away from him on long legs, catching the lift before Harry had reoriented enough to even begin walking, Harry had made his way to his room. He hesitated for a few moments outside of Malfoy’s door, then proceeded to his own and had taken another quick shower before climbing under the covers naked and falling into a deep sleep. 

Harry laid in place, blinking the bleariness away from his eyes and listening intently for whatever had woken him up. There. Again. A muffled—something. Voice. Malfoy’s voice, through the wall. It didn’t sound like he was talking and anyway, who would he talking to? No, that was definitely a—

With dawning horror, he listened as Malfoy’s hushed groan seeped through the wall. Harry climbed up onto his knees, looking at the wallpaper with indecision. Should he knock and let Malfoy know he could be heard? Should he go take a shower and get rid of the problem that was quickly developing in his groin? Whatever he did, Harry knew he should most definitely not be—not be _listening_. 

He pressed his ear to the wall.

Malfoy’s voice came in a bit clearer, low and rough. A grunt, then another groan. Guiltily, Harry let his hand wander down his stomach. He gave his rapidly swelling erection a couple of quick pumps as Malfoy let go of a particularly long, breathy whimper.

Oh, Merlin, what if he wasn’t in there _alone_? 

But Malfoy’s was the only voice he could discern, and Harry’s hand started moving faster over his skin, as if of its own volition. He rose up higher on his knees, gripping the headboard to steady himself as his prick throbbed under the tight strokes of his dry hand. And then Malfoy muttered, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” rather loud, and pleasure spiked through Harry; he came fast and hard, spilling over his fingers and onto his pillow case, his headboard thumping noisily into the wall as his arms tensed and jerked.

Silence fell from the other room. Harry scooted away from the wall, slightly panicked. He spelled himself clean and wandlessly Summoned some clothing from his bag and dressed in a hurry, almost falling over as he stuffed his legs into his trousers. 

He’d barely gotten his shirt on when a soft knock sounded at their adjoining door. Harry shoved his glasses on and took a quick glance in the mirror. His face was still a little pink and his hair and eyes were wild, so he took a couple of deep breaths and headed over, opening the door.

“Malfoy? Did you need something?”

“No, I—” Malfoy’s brows knitted in a small frown. He had obviously showered as well, and had exchanged his cargo shorts and t-shirt for casual trousers in dark grey and a burgundy polo shirt. He looked good in red; Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen Malfoy in it before. “I heard a noise. Are you all right?” He peered into Harry’s room curiously.

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly. “Banged my head when I woke up. Dream, I think. Is it time for dinner?”

“Just. We have a few minutes. Would you like to join me for a drink? We could head down together.” He opened his door wider.

Harry hesitated. “I’m barefoot.”

Malfoy looked down, then rolled his eyes and pulled his wand, pointing it over Harry’s shoulder. “ _Accio_ Potter’s shoes and socks.” Harry turned in time to catch them. “Come on. My room has a refrigerator,” he said, enunciating carefully like he’d just read the word off a card. “It’s fully stocked. It even has some Muggle snacks. I quite like the Snickers.”

Harry followed him, eyes widening as he glanced around. The bookshelves looked askew, and the bed was in the middle of the floor. “What happened to your room?”

“Oh. I’ve been rearranging it,” Malfoy said blithely, walking over to the small fridge in the corner. He pulled a miniature bottle of Firewhiskey and held it up for Harry’s inspection. Harry nodded and Malfoy tossed it to him. “I prefer to sleep facing East. Unfortunately, the hotel has some rather strong sticking charms; the furniture doesn’t seem to want to move unless I force it physically as well as magically.”

Blankly, Harry stared at him. “You’ve been... rearranging your room?”

“Yes.”

“Just now,” Harry clarified. “You were rearranging things.”

Malfoy gave him an odd look, twisting the cap off his own miniature bottle and taking a long draw of the amber liquid. “Yes. As I said. Why? Do you want me to do yours?”

 _Apparently, I do_ , Harry thought, mortified at the realisation that he’d just wanked to... not his former nemesis, no, he knew how to handle that. But it felt slightly less acceptable to wank to one’s former nemesis _moving furniture_. 

“No, thanks. I don’t care which way I face,” Harry said, then shot a pained glare at Malfoy when Malfoy snickered and said, “Good to know.”

“Shut up.”

“Haven’t thought about it at all then?” Malfoy asked smoothly. 

“I fell asleep,” he said, wondering why he was making excuses. It wasn’t as if he _owed_ Malfoy consideration of his proposition. Except, well—

He _had_ thought about it, hadn’t he? Years ago, in school, fleeting, shameful little thoughts about wrestling Malfoy onto the damp grass of the Quidditch pitch or accidentally walking in on him in the showers. And then when things had gotten rather friendly between them after the trials; whenever they’d run into each other in Diagon Alley, they’d spend a few minutes talking as if they didn’t have a scorched-earth history trailing behind them. He’d even thought about it when Malfoy had invited him out for that drink that he’d never shown up for. Harry had, even though he’d started that short-lived and disastrous _thing_ with Ernie--he’d been curious, even assuming Malfoy was straight at the time. Although Harry hadn’t been out with too many wizards, he knew definitely had a _type_ , and somehow that type always seemed to have blond hair (though never pale enough) and a tall, slender form (though never lanky in the exact way he liked, and usually just a touch too tall or short). 

He'd never _consciously_ thought about Malfoy as a real option, but he couldn’t fool himself into thinking he hadn’t been attracted to Malfoy for much, much longer than he was comfortable admitting. Long enough to wait on a barstool for two bloody hours feeling stupid.

But the logistics of it... It was an _awful_ idea, the two of them. Malfoy would probably end up making fun of him in bed and then Harry would end up accidentally pushing him off a cliff. 

_Or he could just fuck you,_ an insidious little voice whispered in his mind. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably and realized that he’d been staring at Malfoy in silence for a couple of minutes. Malfoy’s face was patient but amused.

“I’m thinking about it,” Harry clipped out. Malfoy’s brows flew up so high they were hidden by the tousled silver-white strands of hair falling over his forehead, but he gave Harry a slow and almost tentative smile before clearing his throat.

“Shall we head to dinner?” he asked. 

Harry nodded, twisting the cap off his bottle of liquor and swallowing it in two burning gulps. He followed Malfoy out the door.

***

Dinner was a quiet affair. Malfoy seemed to realise that he’d pushed Harry as far as Harry was willing to allow, because he steered the conversation into generally mundane topics as they ate. He politely asked about Harry’s work, even remembering key details about his last case from what had been written about in the paper; he answered Harry’s queries about Narcissa with a wry little smile; he even segued into talking about Quidditch when the conversation lulled.

“You were one of the best flyers I’d ever seen,” Malfoy said, refilling Harry’s wineglass with a flick of his wand. “I hated you for that.”

“I know you did,” Harry said smugly, and Malfoy chuckled. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ve never flown against anyone as good as you.”

“Ah, but you had the opportunity, didn’t you?” Malfoy raised his eyebrows, tracing the rim of his glass with a steady finger until it began vibrating with a clear, high note. 

Harry realised he’d been asked something and wrenched his gaze away from Malfoy’s finger. “Uh, yeah. Reserve Seeker for the Falcons.”

“Why didn’t you take it?” 

“I get enough publicity,” Harry said, shrugging. His face felt hot.

“You don’t like it, then,” Malfoy mused. “You never seem to mind when you’re—out in public.”

Harry drained his wineglass and Malfoy dutifully refilled it. “I don’t mind the people, I guess. I wish they wouldn’t follow me around. It makes things weird. And the stories in the paper are just bizarre; that took some getting used to, but it’s not as if I haven’t dealt with it for the last ten years.”

“Your publicity is mostly complimentary now, though,” Malfoy pointed out, looking off the veranda where they were seated toward the ocean. “I thought, maybe, that’s why you became an Auror. To keep it that way. Your reputation. And of course that nasty streak of heroism you seem to have.”

“No,” Harry said, looking at him thoughtfully. “Is that why you went into Healing? Your reputation?”

Malfoy hummed a little. “Probably at first. Not that it’s helped much. But I enjoy it immensely, now.”

“Hermione says you’re very good.”

“Hermione shouldn’t be telling tales out of school,” Malfoy said.

Harry grinned. “I’m going to tell her you just called her by her first name.”

Malfoy gave a strained laugh. “No doubt she won’t believe you. Are you finished? Would you like to go for a walk?”

Harry stared at him for a moment, considering. He was incredibly relaxed from the wine, more than a bit drunk actually, and the beach looked rather pretty in the moonlight. And Malfoy wasn’t asking him for anything but a walk. In fact, their whole dinner had been nothing if not wildly platonic. But—

“I think I’d rather go back to my room.”

“I see,” Malfoy said, face flickering with quickly-concealed disappointment.

“You’re welcome to join me,” Harry said, hearing the words as if they were coming from a distance.

Malfoy exhaled hard through his nose, his expression completely inscrutable. Then, with a speed that left Harry both astonished and breathless, Malfoy threw down his napkin and grabbed Harry’s wrist, standing and hauling him to his feet. The world spun around Harry for a moment and he blinked dizzily as Malfoy yanked him through the restaurant, through the lobby, and into the lift. 

He turned on Harry as the doors closed, and pressed his lean body close so there were only centimetres between them. Harry, catching up, held himself still as Malfoy nosed along his temple. He just stood there, trapping Harry against the wall, and _breathed_ against him for long moments, not moving, and for some reason it was the hottest bloody thing ever, even better when Malfoy’s hand snaked up to tangle in his hair and give it a gentle pull.

Harry heard himself make a little ‘eep’ of a sound. He closed his eyes. His prick swelled uncomfortably fast but for some reason he didn’t allow himself to shift closer to seek bodily contact. He could feel the gentle puffs of Malfoy’s breath against his skin—warm, cool—and then Malfoy released his hair to slide his hand down and fan it out against Harry’s jaw, thumb resting against his pulse point. 

“ _Merlin_ ,” Malfoy muttered in a voice Harry had never heard from him—or anyone—before. 

The lift came to a halt and the doors opened. Malfoy pushed off the wall behind him and grabbed Harry’s wrist again in that tight grip, tugging him out and taking long strides down to their rooms, where he came to an abrupt stop before spinning Harry to face him. His eyes were narrow and flinty grey as he leaned in and ghosted his breath over Harry’s mouth. He said, “ _Potter_ ,” in a low, needy way that sent Harry’s already erratic pulse into overdrive.

Harry gulped in a lungful of air. He was unbearably aroused and he waited for that first touch of Malfoy’s lips against his, wanting nothing more than to feel the weight of his body and the heat of his skin. He wanted to reach out, wanted to _grab_ Malfoy, or—no, wanted to be grabbed _by_ Malfoy, to be shoved into his room and stripped and _taken_ while looking up at that fierce expression on Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy wasn’t fucking _moving_ and Harry felt the first flutter of unease even as Malfoy inhaled again, sharply, and took an abrupt step back.

He had the oddest smile on his face, cold and vaguely taunting, and Harry blinked rapidly, trying to acclimate Malfoy’s recent warmth to an expression he hadn’t seen since before the war.

“All right, Potter,” Malfoy gritted out, cruelly formal, “Sleep well, then.”

Harry scoffed in furious disbelief as Malfoy spun on his toe and entered his own room, shutting the door not-quite-hard-enough to qualify as a slam. His whole body thrummed with frustrated want and he sagged a bit, vaguely nauseated from drink and the anger beginning to course through his veins as the chant of _I should have fucking **known**_ caught chorus in his brain.

He stomped into his own room, and didn’t bother to not slam the door.

***

Harry woke up hungover and still livid. He stumbled to the bathroom where there was an array of complimentary potions set up on the back of the counter, and hunted through them until he found something for hangovers. He swallowed it down quickly, shuddering as the taste increased the pitching in his stomach for a moment before it eased off.

He avoided looking in the mirror. Hermione always said he looked a bit frightening when he was angry, which should have been reason enough. But the truth was, the way his eyes glittered and the way his jaw bunched when he was in a temper usually unnerved him enough to calm him dow. Right now, he just wanted to nurse his grudges.

He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to think that Malfoy actually wanted to do anything more than humiliate him. And he was furious with himself for the time with which it had taken; that was, none at all. No, Harry had been ready to bend over and spread after over a decade of varying degrees of animosity and one single day of Malfoy behaving like a normal human being.

More than normal, even- Harry had _liked_ the bastard. He could have sworn that, at the very least, Malfoy had wanted to take him to bed. Why not embarrass him afterward? Was it just _so goddamn funny_ to see how tightly he could wind Harry up before leaving him high and dry?

Harry showered and stomped back into his room, stuck for what to do. Soon enough, he was sure, he’d feel that tug that indicated his presence was due for a shared meal, and he contemplated seeing what would happen if he ignored it but knowing Hermione, it would be no use.

He dressed as quickly as possible and grabbed a piece of the hotel parchment and a quill from the desk, scrawling a quick note. 

_YOU OWE ME SO MUCH FOR THIS ONE. I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING.  
Harry_

He sealed and addressed it, then slipped it into the slot in the desk, where it promptly vanished to the hotel’s onsite Owlery. 

The coiled tension began building in his midsection then and, with a sigh, Harry made his way downstairs. He unerringly followed the strange pull to a different breakfast café at the far end of the lobby. Malfoy was sat in a little booth in the back, hidden by shadows. He looked up with a frigid gaze when Harry slid in across from him.

“Apparently,” he sneered after a moment of silence, “both of us are required to come to meals and activities.”

“Tried to leave, did you?” Harry tersely, picking up his menu. He looked at it with deliberate interest, not really seeing anything. “Well, you’re not the only one who wishes he could.”

“I gathered,” Malfoy muttered. 

“You know what, Malfoy—” Harry began hotly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, looking weary. “Just—shut up, Potter. We have two more days of this before we can escape, and neither of us are allowed to use our wands on each other.” Harry clenched his hand and Malfoy’s gaze flicked to it. “ _Or_ our fists. I’ll leave you alone if you do the same for me.”

As the wronged party, Harry found that insufferably unfair. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward. “ _You’re_ the one who keeps bothering _me_ ,” he hissed. “You spent a hundred thousand Galleons all just so you could—could… All I ever do is leave you alone.” _Even though you don’t deserve it_ , he managed not to add. 

Face stony, Malfoy glared at him. “And I’m saying that’s just _fine_ with me. And I’ll participate if you will, you giant wanker.”

“For once,” Harry ground out.

“Yes,” Malfoy responded snidely. “For once.”

Suddenly deflating, Harry leaned back against the booth. Either the hangover potion hadn’t fully worked, or the argument had given him a tension headache. He put a hand to his temple and rubbed it with a heavy sigh. “What do we have to do today?”

“Something called snorkelling,” Malfoy said flatly. “It’s Muggle.”

“Isn’t this a wizarding hotel?” Harry said under his breath, exasperated. “Who came up with this itinerary?”

Malfoy folded his arms across his chest; his forearms flexed. “I did.”

Harry snorted. “Right.”

“They gave me a selection of things to pick from, and I picked hiking and snorkelling and a spa treatment and something called base jumping, which is the way Muggles fly,” he said, as if challenging Harry to believe it. 

Appalled, Harry stared at him. There was no fucking way he was base jumping, Gryffindor or not. “It isn’t, actually.”

“They had pictures,” Malfoy said mulishly. “They didn’t move, but I got the idea.”

“Malfoy—”

Malfoy’s breakfast popped out before him on the table. He cast a dark look at Harry. “Order. Eat. Or we’ll never get out of here.”

Harry’s mouth went tight at the command—everything did, really—but he did as Malfoy said. 

Anything to get this over with, faster.

***

Only four major things went wrong during their snorkelling lesson.

The first was that Malfoy was somehow under the impression that he was supposed to wear his fins even out of water. And, though it was a Wizarding hotel with a wizard instructor, every other witch and wizard in the class seemed to think the same thing. Everyone refused to listen to Harry’s objections.

It led to a lot of people falling over as they trudged through the little forest path on the way to the beach lagoon.

“Just take them off until we get there!” Harry demanded, exasperated, when Malfoy toppled to the side for the thousandth time.

Malfoy gave a derisive sniff. “No one else is. The instructor said we had to wear them.”

Harry cast a look at the instructor. He wasn’t wearing swim-fins as he lingered at the front but seemed too delighted to disabuse the rest of the group from the notion that they needed to. “ _He’s_ not.”

“ _He’s_ the instructor.”

Harry rolled his eyes and reached for a modicum of patience as an elderly witch in a bright swimming costume ahead of them tripped and started a domino effect of falling amongst her group of friends. “C’mon, Malfoy. I was raised a Muggle.”

“Yes, but have you ever been snorkelling before?” Malfoy asked. He walked like a strange bird, carefully lifting his feet high in front of him for each step. 

“No, but—”

“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?" Malfoy said coolly.

“I know you’ve fallen over a dozen times.”

“Part of the experience,” Malfoy muttered, obviously trying very hard not to do so again. They edged forward about another ten centimetres over a small trail of pebbles on the path--which, of course, caught the front of Malfoy’s fins. He flailed his arms, windmilling them wide, and just barely managed not to fall into Harry again. He gave Harry a smug glance as he righted himself.

He looked absolutely deranged.

“Of what?” Harry demanded, bottling his enjoyment. It was already after ten and the class was only supposed to last until lunch. They had been on this twenty-meter path for fifteen minutes.

“Of being Muggle,” Malfoy informed him.

“Muggles fall down a lot, do they?”

“One would assume,” Malfoy said snottily. At Harry’s raised eyebrows, he huffed. “But probably only when they’re wearing these shoes,” he allowed.

Harry sighed. He latched his hands around Malfoy’s forearm in a tight grip and hauled him—sideways—through the stumbling group of people, up to the instructor. He took a deep breath and pasted on his best earnest face. “Hi, I’m Harry Potter.”

The instructor looked startled. “Akamu,” he said. “Thanks for joining the class. I’m going to be answering questions once we get to the beach.”

Harry smiled at him easily. “I figured. But as you can see, most of the people in the class,” he gave a wave behind him and nodded at Malfoy, “are unaware that they don’t actually need to put their fins on until they’re in the water. And we might be able to get to the lesson if everyone reaches it without breaking any bones.”

Akamu had the grace to look a little sheepish. He peered around Harry in an exaggerated fashion and winced as Harry heard another crash behind him. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “I’m sorry for anyone who’s gotten the wrong impression, but swim fins don’t need to be put on until you’re in the water,” he called out, then looked at Harry apologetically. “You’re Muggle-born?”

Harry tried not to laugh. “Don’t get many of us?” he guessed.

Akamu smirked. “I sometimes have a bit of fun with my classes,” he confided to Harry’s amusement and Malfoy’s general outrage. “But I don’t ever let anyone get hurt.”

Malfoy leaned into Harry—he smelled clean and spicy—as he lifted one leg and then the other to remove his fins, glaring at the instructor the whole time. 

The second problem of the day arose from the fact that Malfoy refused to take the option—given by Akamu under Harry’s watchful eye—for the participants to use a bubble-head charm. Akamu did add, mischievously, that it wouldn’t be technically ‘snorkelling’ without the provided mask.

After getting a quick tutorial in the basics of snorkelling, Akamu had paired everyone off in groups of two and directed them to different areas along the hidden expanse of the lagoon to begin. He and Malfoy got a semi-isolated spot at the base of the sandy curve out to sea, near some trees that hung far out over the water, and they put their fins on and headed in. 

Harry immediately spelled the bubble over his head, as had half the class feeling his first pinpricks of excitement for the activity. The water was an incredibly clear turquoise, with brightly-coloured coral reefs and interesting shadows moving under the surface. 

Malfoy, however, said that he was going to do things, “the right way,” and slipped the mask on over his head.

Instead of a bird, this made him look like some sort of insane, Polyjuiced fish, his eyes magnified behind the clear plane of plastic, his patrician nose flattening slightly behind the dark blue rubber cover. His hair, though dry, stuck out in odd directions, shoved up in the back by the mask-strap. He popped the snorkel into his mouth, his lips stretching widely around the mouth piece. Harry wished he’d brought a camera.

“Fare,” he announced, “’ow ee an oh ii.”

Harry looked at him blankly. “What?”

Malfoy tried again. “’ _Ow_ ,” he emphasised, “ee an oh _ii_.”

“I know you speak like three languages, but I hope you know that isn’t one.”

“IFE,” Malfoy said.

Harry couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Malfoy,” he said with far more affection than he intended, considering he was still angry about the previous night, “how did I really not know what a _nerd_ you were?”

Malfoy gave him an offended look and pulled the snorkel out of his mouth. “Now we can go in,” he explained, as if Harry was supposed to have been able to understand him all along. “And I speak five languages.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to speak any of them with something like that in your mouth,” Harry chuckled. 

Malfoy stared at him from behind his mask, blinking slowly. Harry’s face went hot and his throat ran dry, so he did the only thing he could think of: dived below the surface to cool off.

It worked for about half a second until Malfoy joined him. For the first time since they’d set off from the hotel, Malfoy actually looked graceful, snorkelling mask notwithstanding. His hair floated around him like an angelically pale halo and he moved with an easy rhythm in the water, his muscles tensing and relaxing as he swam over to some coral reefs. Harry stared after him with equal parts lust and dismay.

Until about thirty seconds later when Malfoy started choking. He kicked up to the surface in a panic, almost hitting Harry in the face with one of his fins. Harry was starting to believe that one could breathe solely in sighs. He followed Malfoy up.

Malfoy was still coughing, his mouthpiece dangling by his cheek. 

“You okay?” Harry asked dutifully, giving him a couple of hard thwacks on the back. 

“I couldn’t breathe!”

“Well, no. You were underwater.” Harry pointed to his own charm, still intact. “That’s why, with this…”

Malfoy ripped off his mask and looked at it in disgust. “He said you’d be able to breathe with this on!”

“Face _in_ the water, not head under.”

“No, I distinctly remember hearing him say that if we put our heads underwater, we needed to tip the nozzle back to clear it of water,” Malfoy said, glaring at the tiny dot that was their instructor, down the beach. “Which I did.”

Harry paused. “But you did it _while you were underwater,_ Malfoy!”

“So?”

“So…!” Flummoxed, Harry looked around, as if the ocean itself could explain things for him. “So, when you breathe underwater, you drown!”

“Honestly, how do Muggles even survive?” Malfoy demanded. 

“Well, I’m pretty sure one of their methods is to make sure they don’t inhale fluids,” Harry said with a snort.

Malfoy’s cheeks darkened. “Fine,” he muttered grudgingly. “I’ll take the charm.”

Relieved, Harry cast a wandless charm, encasing Malfoy’s head in a clear bubble. They ducked back under the surface.

The third problem of the day was maybe actually the _first_ , because it accompanied the rest of them, but it was so tangled with the fourth that Harry was having trouble figuring out how to catalogue all of them. (Hermione would know, but Harry was still irritated enough not to ask her when he got home.) And anyway, the third problem was really only a problem for Harry, until the fourth problem hit, and then it was a problem for both of them.

It was just—Harry had no idea how to maintain any kind of distance when Malfoy wore a swimsuit like that.

It wasn’t entirely _indecent,_ or anything. Not a thonged speedo like the man down the beach was wearing. But—well, it showed a lot. It was basically a set of black nylon boxer-briefs, only much shorter, coming down to about an inch below Malfoy’s groin—which it cradled almost lovingly, every ripple and curve and outline on display. Harry could make out the soft edges of Malfoy's cock, positioned down over his bollocks, which emphasised the most delectable bulge Harry had ever seen in his life. Below the suit were two strong, long—extremely white—legs. Above were the subtly defined plains of Malfoy's stomach, the ‘v’ of his hipbones, and a skinny trailing of golden hair from his belly button which disappeared into his suit. His chest, which Harry had gotten to drool over yesterday, was lightly furred with hair on the expanse across his pectorals, and his shoulders weren’t overly-wide, but they looked strong, and capable, and gorgeous. 

It was basically like seeing Malfoy walk and swim around completely naked but for body paint. Which was more than a little distracting. 

However, if he noticed that Harry was sending body-regulating charms to himself every couple of minutes, he was at least gentleman enough not to comment on it.

Once Malfoy had accepted the bubble-charm, they had a pretty good time. Their voices were muffled in the water, but they managed to communicate fairly well; one of them would take turns picking something to look at, then the other. By doing this, they managed to see some beautiful rock formations with tiny caves inside of them that probably housed sea creatures, crabs scuttling on the sandy bottom of the ocean floor, a school of trumpet fish, and even a small octopus peeking out from behind some coral. 

When they finally came up for lunch, Harry was tired and enough impressed with the beauty of the place that he chatted with Malfoy easily for a good long while. Surprise of all surprises, Malfoy really liked fish—he had an aquarium at his flat, he told Harry—and could list most tropical species. He blathered on about it for so long and with such enthusiasm that Harry—who was primarily fascinated with how pretty they were—found himself interested and ended up asking loads of questions, all of which Malfoy answered with a smile on his face.

Even after the rest of the group packed up and headed back to the hotel, Malfoy sat with him, answering questions about fish—and then, slowly, about how he had come to love them (the Mind-Healer he’d seen after the war had suggested he get some), and then he’d somehow segued into what he’d liked and disliked about work. He talked using his hands and every expressive muscle in his face, and Harry stared at him helplessly, feeling as though he was in the bottom of the sand pit, waiting to get buried.

It was the _worst thing, ever_ , discovering that he liked Malfoy so much. Because he was an arse. And Harry couldn’t trust him. And for some reason, he’d thought it would be funny to drag Harry out here just to make him feel foolish and not even give him an orgasm to show for it.

Still. It was only when all of their food was gone and the beach had been empty but for the two of them for over an hour, and Harry realised that he suddenly could describe what it _felt like_ to have your eyes shine at someone, that that it occurred to him that he was pretty done for. Sitting on the beach with a nearly-naked Malfoy and basically only looking at his face for a really long time were not good indicators of getting out of the situation intact.

This led them, unerringly, to the last problem of the day. Which was that Harry really _hadn’t_ been staring at Malfoy’s body as they’d sat together in the sand. Because, if he had been, he would have noticed the beginnings of a pink tinge that was a near-certain death-knell to someone with such fair skin.


	2. Chapter 2

They finally dragged their arses back to the hotel and parted after making arrangements for where to eat for dinner. Harry took a quick shower and puttered around his room for a bit, unable to really focus on anything. He glanced at their adjoining door and considered asking if Malfoy might, in fact, be interested in a game of Exploding Snap, but reigned in the impulse. He headed down to the lobby and ducked into a bookshop to browse for a while. He found a book on knitting for Molly, another on the rules and history of Quodpot for Ron, a book called _The Most Magical Inventions of Muggles!_ for Arthur and—though she didn’t deserve it—a set of apapane-feathered quills for Hermione. 

He popped back up to his room to drop off his purchases before dinner and was surprised as he stepped in to hear a tentative tapping coming from the door that connected his room to Malfoy’s. He set down his bag and walked over to open it, blinking for several seconds at the sight that greeted him.

Malfoy sat on the on the floor on his side of the door in just his pants, his posture erect and careful. His skin was beet red from the tips of his toes up to his forehead. 

“Well?” he demanded in a weakly aggravated voice when Harry continued to stare at him in stunned silence, “are you going to help me or not?”

“Jesus, Malfoy!” Harry reached down to help him up. Malfoy took Harry’s proffered hands and let himself be hauled, slowly, to his feet, hissing through gritted teeth the entire time. “You forgot to put on skin-protective charms?”

“Obviously,” Malfoy drawled out in a pained fashion, sounding enough like Snape to startle Harry. He walked gingerly over to Harry’s bed and sat down.

“But—you’re a Healer!”

Malfoy grimaced. “Because Healers tend to go into work despite injury or illness, my magic is restricted from Healing myself if I have an injury beyond a level-two, unless it’s life-threatening and immediate. It’s a way for them to ensure that we seek proper care when we need it.”

“A level-two?” Harry asked, running to fetch a bottle of aloe skin potion that Hermione had packed for him. He found a flannel cloth and poured a small amount onto it.

“Small bone breaks—fingers, toes, et. cetera. A cold that lasts for more than three days or a fever of thirty-eight point six,” Malfoy explained, sighing a bit as Harry began blotting his skin gently. “Level-one injuries are things like scrapes and bruises. Sprains. Spoilt-food sickness.”

“And this is beyond level two?” Harry asked in concern, pressing the towel to the back of Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy leaned his head forward to facilitate the touch, and Harry could see that—Jesus—even the skin on his scalp was red.

“It’s a second degree burn that covers more than forty percent of my body,” Malfoy told him, giving another hiss as Harry swiped over his shoulders too hard. “Can you heal it? It’s a delicate spell, but the wand motion is fairly simple,” he said, twiddling his fingers in a small circle-stab.

“I can try,” Harry said doubtfully, handing Malfoy the cloth and grabbing his wand. “I’m shit at certain Healing charms, though, other than the basic ones they taught us in the Aurors…”

“Just do it, Potter. You’re good at everything _else_ ,” Malfoy griped. Harry circle-stabbed and Malfoy yelped. “Slower!”

He tried again. The red skin faded from phoenix to crab, just a touch more muted than brilliant. He made the motion again to the same results, then again until Malfoy had gone from a shocking, sickly red to a shocking, sickly, dark, dark pink.

“I’m sorry,” he said, biting his lip. “You don’t have a potion for it?”

“No, but the hotel might,” Malfoy said. His eyes were disturbingly pale surrounded by his discoloured skin. “Can you…?”

Harry immediately sent down a Patronus to the front desk, requesting the strongest skin-curing potion they had, then sat back down next to Malfoy and resumed coasting the aloe potion along his skin. Malfoy sat unmoving as Harry rubbed the sticky-slick solution over his exposed body with long, slow swipes. After a couple of minutes, Malfoy’s strained breathing became steadier; it caught occasionally when Harry pressed too hard, but soon enough he sounded more relieved than on the verge of death.

A brisk knock came at the door and Harry jumped permit a bellhop into the room. The man looked at Malfoy and blanched, shakily holding out two bottles of bubbling potions. “No skin charm?” he guessed sympathetically.

“No,” Malfoy snarled, attempting to turn around to glare at him before making a small whimpering noise and resuming his position of utter stillness. 

“Do you—er—have an onsite Healer? Someone who could perform a Healing Charm for him?” Harry asked.

The bellman tugged at his ear, looking apologetically awkward. “We _usually_ do, but—”

“Of course,” Malfoy muttered bitterly behind him. 

“His wife is in labour, is the thing, and our reserve Healer is on the big island right now at our other hotel with an emergency,” the bellman rushed out. “We could probably have someone sent over from the mainland by early tomorrow morning, but as I understand it, these should take care of things before then. We could—we could transfer him to the local hospital via Floo…”

“I’m not going to the hospital only to wait around for six hours for a five second spell. I know how hospitals work,” Malfoy snapped out. “I’m on _holiday_.”

Harry’s mouth twitched unwillingly, and he looked down at the bottles. “What do I do with them?”

“Just give them here, Potter,” Malfoy said irritably. “Please leave now.”

Startled, Harry stared at the back of Malfoy’s head, wondering if he was supposed to vacate his own room. But then the bellman gave a short bow and scurried out as if he were afraid of being hexed. Harry sighed and walked back over to Malfoy, handing him the bottles.

Malfoy glanced at them. He opened up the larger bottle with the bright green solution and swallowed two long gulps. He shuddered slightly and nodded down to the dark blue solution, passing it back over to Harry. “This is the same as what you have, only hospital-grade.”

Harry dutifully cast a cleaning charm to the cloth, applied the newer potion to it, and resumed stroking down Malfoy’s skin. Merlin, there were even small water blisters forming over his shoulders. 

“You look…”

“In horrible pain? I am,” Malfoy answered crossly.

“I was going to say gross, actually,” Harry replied, keeping his voice mild, “But that, too.”

Malfoy closed his eyes as if he were embarrassed, though of course it was impossible to tell from his complexion at that point. Harry lightly began dabbing at the blisters with the cloth and was relieved when they immediately disappeared. Malfoy’s shoulders sagged a bit.

“Will that potion you took fix it?”

“The combination of the internal and external potions will decrease the damage until I’m able to heal myself. I’ll take a few more doses. It’ll just take a few hours before I’m comfortable enough to let anything touch me,” Malfoy said grimly.

“That’s a shame,” Harry mumbled. His face flooded with heat when Malfoy’s eyes shot to his. “I just mean—it can’t be comfortable sitting around in your pants.”

“The _sunburn_ is uncomfortable, you wanker. Sitting around in one’s pants is almost universally considered comfortable.” He paused. “Get my stomach, it hurts.”

Harry conceded the point despite how bratty and entitled Malfoy sounded, and tentatively sat down on the mattress next to Malfoy pulling his arm from around his back to his front. He let the cloth skate lightly over Malfoy’s raw skin. Malfoy shifted a bit, leaning back to allow Harry better reach. Harry slid his hand up, covering Malfoy’s chest with a thin layer of blue, then moved it back down, circling his belly-button and haltingly travelling further down, to the flat of his stomach above the waistband of his pants.

“Your swimsuit didn’t come up this high,” he said, voice gone quiet and unnaturally low.

Another pause. “No,” Malfoy said. Harry felt like a complete pervert for the direction his thoughts had taken—Malfoy was fucking _injured_ , to say nothing of his incomprehensible behaviour from the previous night. But then Malfoy said in a strained tone, “It would help if you went lower.”

Harry’s hand stilled. Malfoy’s skin was hot, even through the cloth, but there was an interesting shape forming beneath the fabric of his pants. 

This was about a million kinds of stupid. 

Harry lowered his hand.

It felt like something that should be difficult to do, but it was almost _too easy_ , dipping his hand beneath the elastic waistband of Malfoy’s briefs, even just a few centimetres. Carefully avoiding going any further, Harry angled his knuckles downwards and clutched at the cloth with a desperate grip, sliding it back and forth over Malfoy’s burnt skin. Malfoy gave a groaning little sigh, barely louder than a breath, and closed his eyes again. He leaned back a little.

Harry watched the movement of his hand gliding beneath Malfoy’s briefs. There was something hypnotic about it, about being _so close_ to touching Malfoy’s swiftly swelling cock _without_ touching it, about Malfoy’s unexpected reaction. He had to be in pain—his skin hadn’t paled any further—but he leaned backward onto his palms with a small grimace, then lazed there as Harry continued to stroke him. 

Harry didn’t venture any deeper into Malfoy's pants, but he wasn’t surprised after several moments to feel the brush of soft skin against his knuckles and the backs of his fingers as Malfoy’s cock rose up. Each of them sucked in a sharp breath at the same time.

“Do you—” Harry bit his lip. “Does it hurt?”

“Keep going,” Malfoy instructed unsteadily. “Just—just like that.”

Something sticky-wet smeared across Harry’s skin and he let out a small noise. He wrenched his gaze away from what he was doing and up to Malfoy, whose head lolled to one side. He had opened his eyes and was staring at Harry with a fierce, narrow expression that caused Harry’s erection to jerk against the front of his jeans. 

“Malfoy…”

“Faster, Potter. Do it.”

Mesmerized, Harry found he couldn’t look away. The silky slide of Malfoy’s precome against the back of his fingers, the brush of the spongy head of his cock, the way Malfoy canted his hips ever-so-slightly… All of it was bewildering and unbearably arousing, and Harry didn’t think he could stop the movements of his hand if he tried. He felt like a sleepwalker, confused with lust, and it was as though the room was suddenly without oxygen; he let go of a ragged breath and sucked another into tight lungs.

He sped up, back and forth, smaller and swifter motions against Malfoy’s stomach so as to not lose contact with his cock on each stroke. Minutes seemed to stretch into hours, and still he couldn’t stop, the pace of his hand going faster and faster. He wanted to see—he didn’t know if this could—he wanted to—he _wanted_ —

Malfoy shuddered and broke their gaze, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as warm fluid began spurting over Harry’s hand. It hit low on his wrist, dripping down through the cracks in his knuckles and over the back of his hand. Malfoy gave a breathless cry and held himself, trembling, for a few moments, his back slightly arched, his hips inched forward. 

Harry looked down in amazement at the white stripes staining the back of his wrist, saw the rapidly spreading wet spot darkening the front of Malfoy’s briefs. He waited until it was over, until Malfoy’s body had relaxed fractionally, before removing his hand and standing up on shaking legs.

Dizzy from the lack of blood flow to his brain, Harry wobbled for a moment in place. Malfoy opened his eyes and blinked up at him slowly, his mouth opening into a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, his facial features cautious but relaxed.

The silence grew thick and strange. Harry looked away, turning his body slightly in hopes that his erection wasn’t so obvious; it was certainly painful enough to be. 

Malfoy cleared his throat. “I thought—” he murmured unsteadily, but stopped and frowned. He nodded toward Harry’s crotch. “I can’t help you.” 

Something inside Harry, so warm only moments prior, froze. “I didn’t ask you to,” he said tightly, taking another step back.

“Potter—I just mean—” Looking far too frustrated for the one who’d just gotten to have an orgasm, Malfoy sighed. “I can barely move. I won’t be able to for hours. It hurts to even talk, let alone—”

“Right. Right.” Harry exhaled, his chest loosening. “It’s fine.”

“I could watch, though,” Malfoy added, voice husky.

Harry’s heart stuttered. His cock throbbed in his jeans. “You could…” He swallowed hard. “What—what happened. I didn’t even mean…”

“You didn’t?” Malfoy lifted an eyebrow.

Harry shifted awkwardly, feeling defensive. “After last night.”

Malfoy’s mouth drew down again. “Of course. I’d managed to forget, but thank you for the reminder.” His eyes grew cool. “That’s fine, then, Potter. Better than. Perfect.”

Anger bubbled up, sharp and satisfying, finally causing his erection to die a little. He opened his mouth to—he wasn’t sure what. Yell, maybe. Curse at Malfoy, almost definitely. How was it possible to like someone so much and be so _aggravated_ by them? How was it possible to like someone so much who was such a complete _arse_? To like someone so much who—

Harry closed his mouth, and looked at Malfoy more closely. 

The problem with getting so angry about Malfoy, Harry reasoned, was that he actually did like him. Malfoy was smart and strangely funny and with the exception of the previous night, hadn’t _really_ done anything wrong in years, if Harry didn’t count not showing up for that drink. And there was something sadly… resigned about Malfoy’s expression. 

He didn’t know what game Malfoy was playing, and he certainly didn’t trust him, but there was enough disappointment on his face that it… Well, _mattered_ to Harry, somehow. 

Harry took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “If you’re not feeling well enough to go down for dinner, maybe we could have something sent up? We’ll have to eat together, anyway, and I could—I could apply the rest of that stuff.” He coughed and clarified, “To your back and legs, I mean.”

Malfoy snorted, considering him warily. After a moment, he gave a short, pained nod. “I’ll have the swordfish,” he clipped out, as though Harry was a server. 

Harry huffed a relieved laugh and began searching for the room service menu.

***

Waking up alone, Harry realised, was more disappointing than he expected. He groaned at the sunlight streaming in through the window and stared accusingly at the empty expanse of bed next to him.

After dinner, he and Malfoy had stayed up well into the night so that Malfoy could finish off the sunburn potion and Harry could reapply the solution to his annoyingly distracting body. They’d also finished off two—three?—bottles of wine together and talked—about everything, actually, except for what was going on between them. Not that Harry knew what the hell that was.

He was beginning to suspect he’d been dosed with some sort of lust potion, or perhaps even a hormone-fluctuation spell. 

Well. Not really. But it’d be nice if he could blame his confusion and behaviour on _something_ besides Malfoy’s humour and pale hair and frustratingly suggestive smiles. He was beginning to feel like a lunatic, wanting someone so badly after barely two days together and being unable to take that next leap. Though fear certainly wasn’t a stranger to him, Harry had never had trouble conquering it. Only, now…

He’d even tried last night, after Malfoy’s skin had paled considerably and he’d fallen into a hard sleep on Harry’s bed, to kiss Malfoy awake. He’d stared down at him for the longest time, at his relaxed features, at his hair fanning against the pillow, at his lips which had been parted just a tick. It had felt like his limbs had been frozen with indecision; worse, it had seemed as though Malfoy’s magic were coming off of him in waves, repelling Harry from coming any closer. As if Malfoy’s magical core were telling Harry to leave him the hell alone.

He'd collapsed beside Malfoy, depressed and determined to confront him in the morning. Except in the harsh light of day, his determination had faded, his depression lingered, and he mainly wished he were more surprised that Malfoy hadn’t stayed.

He rolled out of bed with a groan and headed to the bathroom to find the same hangover potion he’d taken the previous morning. He winced as he swallowed it but really, spending this much time around Malfoy, not knowing your arse from your elbow, would send anyone straight into a drinking problem.

He used the facilities and hopped into the shower for a quick, unsatisfying wank as he replayed the soft brush of Malfoy’s leaking cock against his hand again. He was in the process of getting dressed when he heard a small _ding_ and looked over to find that the room service table from last night had been cleared, and for some reason was replenishing with breakfast foods—aromatic, beautifully displayed servings of omelettes, toast, rashers of bacon, fried potatoes, pancakes, and even coffee and orange juice. 

Beautifully displayed _servings_.

Harry stared at the two place settings in consternation, just as a light knock came at the door. Pulling on his shirt quickly, he went to answer it.

Malfoy stood there. The potion had obviously worked well enough that he’d been able to heal the rest of the burn and now his complexion was back to its normal creamy-milk glow, but for the small tinge of pink that still rode high on his cheekbones. He’d also changed his clothes into a set of khaki trousers and a garish short-sleeved Hawaiian button-down. It was covered in blue and yellow flowers, green palm fronds, and red bugs of some sort, and Harry bit his tongue until he tasted blood. 

“Nice shirt,” he choked out as seriously as he could.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, looking down at himself. “It was a gift, for the trip.”

From _who_? Harry wondered wildly, determined not to dissolve into laughter—mostly because he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from it—but Malfoy just sort of kept _looking_ at him, intently, and amusement faded as quickly as it had begun.

He blinked. “Hi.”

“Good morning.” Malfoy waited for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “May I come in?”

“Er, sure.” Harry stepped back and Malfoy walked into the room. 

“Oh, good, they already sent up my order," Malfoy said with satisfaction, wandering over to the room service table and inspecting the food. He sat down and waved at Harry to join him.

Harry did. “You were the one who ordered this?”

“What, did you think Weasley did?” Malfoy snorted. He forked a bite of omelette into his mouth and, after swallowing, said, “I hope you don’t mind. I got a selection based on what you’ve eaten the past couple of days.”

“No, uh, this is good,” Harry said, off-kilter. “I just—you were gone when I woke up.”

Malfoy paused to take another bite. He seemed abruptly uncomfortable. “I had an early-morning International Firecall; the lobby sent up a Patronus to inform me. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Harry mumbled, then tucked into his own food.

“I’ll remember that.” 

Harry jerked his head up. Malfoy was staring at him oddly, eyes perceptive and considering. Like he was working out a difficult Arithmancy puzzle. Harry shifted under his scrutiny. “What?”

Malfoy shrugged and looked down. They began eating again. “We have a lot to do today.”

“Yeah, about that.” Harry tried not to cringe. “You know, Malfoy, base jumping…”

“What,” Malfoy said flatly, eyes sparking with challenge.

“Um. Just that it’s—dangerous? And you don’t seem the most, well, _comfortable_ with Muggle things.”

Malfoy scowled at him. It was strangely endearing. “I can do any Muggle things I want, Potter.”

“Right,” Harry agreed, struggling not to mention the hyperventilation and scraped knee in the jungle, or the swim fins and near drowning and sunburn from snorkelling. And those should have been _safe_ activities. “Just—maybe you can think about it? I mean, er, I didn’t come into the wizarding world doing all sorts of dangerous…” He trailed off awkwardly, turning back to his food.

“Of course,” Malfoy drawled. Harry studiously ignored him. “Very good example.”

“It would have been if I’d been any other person,” Harry grumbled after a moment.

Malfoy snickered. “But you’re not, and that’s the point. You were good at magic and I’m going to be good at Muggle things.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Malfoy.” 

He’d just have to make sure to have some really, really strong levitation charms at the ready. And maybe some cushioning charms, too.

Malfoy set his fork aside and blotted at his mouth with his napkin. He took a final sip of his coffee and looked at Harry with that intent gaze again, the one that unfailingly made him feel like squirming. He resolutely didn’t, tilting his chin up, instead. “What?”

Swallowing slowly, grey gaze wandering over Harry’s face, Malfoy said, “I’d like to kiss you, now. If that’s okay.”

“What the fuck?” Harry blurted, too astonished to waste time thinking of the right way to respond.

“I’m speaking in the one of my five fluent languages that you actually know, Potter,” Malfoy said stiffly, looking at him as though gauging Harry’s expression for hidden insults. He seemed far more suspicious than the situation warranted, Harry thought, considering he was the one doing the propositioning. After a moment during which Harry sat gaping at him, Malfoy sighed. “Well?”

“You want to kiss me,” Harry said blankly.

“That’s what I said.”

“Why didn’t you the other night?”

Malfoy flapped a hand. “I just—I couldn’t. We were drunk and—” He huffed out an exasperated breath. “Look, do you think it’s the most pleasant thing ever, seeking _permission_ to kiss you?”

“I can’t imagine it would be,” Harry said faintly. “Although it does happen a lot.”

“Nice ego, Potter.”

“Shut up. It’s true, and I don’t like it either, though it doesn’t generally happen with people who—” Gathering his wits about him, Harry leaned back in his chair and studied Malfoy. He crossed his arms over his chest. “How do I know you won’t shove off again?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and mimicked Harry’s posture, leaning back and folding his arms. “You don’t.”

“And I’m still supposed to kiss you?”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem doing something else to me yesterday,” Malfoy said with a smirk.

“And yet you left this morning,” Harry pointed out.

“I told you, I had an emergency Firecall to take downstairs,” Malfoy defended, looking increasingly ruffled. “So, am I to take it that you, in fact, don’t want to be kissed?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Malfoy pursed his mouth. “Then what is this?”

“Negotiation,” Harry said simply.

Malfoy’s countenance changed so suddenly, Harry wanted to grin. His face went from tight and uncertain to pleased and smug in a split second. “ _Kink_ negotiation?” he breathed, leaning forward, eyes filled with delighted disbelief.

Harry laughed, even as he felt his cheeks warm. “I just meant—what we expect out of this.” He hesitated. “…We could probably do the other, later.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy sat back again and surveyed him. Harry felt like a prized dragon being circled but he didn’t look away from Malfoy’s unwavering gaze. “All for a kiss?”

“What I was willing to give you for free the other night isn’t going to be so easy this time, Malfoy.”

“And what is it you want?”

“You don’t just walk off and slam the door, for one,” Harry demanded. 

Malfoy nodded thoughtfully, as though he had to consider it. “What if it’s a bad kiss?”

Harry just looked at him. “It won’t be.”

Malfoy shivered and looked away with a tiny smile. “I won’t walk away,” he said, then made a face and qualified, “Tonight.”

Harry chewed on his lip for a moment. “Why not now?”

Cracking an incredulous laugh, Malfoy rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “I can’t believe that Harry Potter is basically demanding sex from me right this minute.” He looked back down and his smile grew, sharp and assessing but not cruel. “I never would have guessed it of you, Potter.”

Harry refused to let the humiliation attempting to slide into his brain deter him. “You got to come yesterday,” he said, feeling petty. “I didn’t.”

“I want you for longer than we have this morning before we’re due,” Malfoy returned abruptly. “Or between meals. We’ll have dinner and come back, if you’re amenable.”

“I am. And you’ll tell me why you’ve been a shit to me in public for the last year. Why you stopped talking to me and stood me up that one night. And why you brought me here,” Harry added. “Why you spent so much.”

At this, Malfoy paused. “Not before.”

“Before what? You kiss me?”

“Before I fuck you, Potter.”

Harry sucked in a swift breath through his nose. Malfoy’s grey eyes gleamed at him knowingly, but he waited as Harry scrambled to figure out what to say.

Should he deny that’s what he wanted? He’d only ever topped, before— _it’s weird_ , the first wizard he’d slept with had said, _trying to top Harry Potter_. As though fingers and tongues were okay, but it went against the laws of nature to actually fuck the Defeater of Voldemort or something. Harry had been too disturbed by that mentality to ask again.

But he wanted it. Oh, Merlin, he wanted it. 

He cleared his throat. “You can tell me after.”

Malfoy’s eyes flared with triumph. He stood, and Harry rose from his chair, too. They looked at each other for a moment.

“Then I can kiss you?”

Harry licked his lips. “Are you really asking again?” Malfoy didn’t move, so Harry stepped forward, tilting his head up to meet Malfoy’s eyes. “Yeah. You can kiss me.”

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Malfoy bit out and crashed his mouth down onto Harry’s, rocking him backward with the force of it. 

Startled at the speed, Harry stared at Malfoy’s cheekbone for a moment, at the closed fans of his pale eyelashes, and the hair feathering down over his forehead. Then the feeling of Malfoy’s mouth on his own penetrated his senses and his eyes drifted shut; his hands came up to grip Malfoy’s waist. Malfoy gripped his biceps, pulling him closer, and Harry automatically stepped in until they were pressed flush, from chest to knee. 

Malfoy handled Harry roughly for a moment, kissing him hard enough that his own teeth bit into the insides of his lips, but then he pulled back slightly. He angled, adjusted. His breath ghosted, warm and moist, over Harry’s mouth, and he came back softly, lips parted. Harry opened his mouth eagerly and Malfoy’s tongue slipped inside, practiced and smooth, rubbing against Harry’s own in a leisurely way that made Harry's cock stand at full attention even as he swayed a bit, his knees feeling weak. 

It was slowly deliberate, the way Malfoy plundered Harry’s mouth and all Harry could think of were the words _yes_ , and _more_ , and somewhere in there— _finally_. He groaned as Malfoy sucked at his bottom lip, scraping his teeth over it teeth, and one hand came up to snake through his hair. Harry slid his arms around to Malfoy’s back, pulling him closer than there was room for, and he could feel the hard ridge of Malfoy’s cock pressing against his stomach. He shifted, searching for friction and Malfoy made a growling noise, low in his throat. He started walking Harry backward toward the bed. His mouth was slick and hotly insistent and Harry gave himself up to it, shaking with lust. The backs of his thighs hit his mattress just as Malfoy pulled his head away, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. He leaned his forehead against Harry’s for a moment; he was dishevelled and panting and beautiful and Harry tried reaching up to capture Malfoy in another kiss, but Malfoy slowly uncurled his tight fingers from Harry’s hair and released him.

“Don’t you feel it?” he asked hoarsely.

“Well, I _did_ , but then you moved away,” Harry muttered, cranky and flustered and dazed. Malfoy’s eyes shot up to his and, after a moment, he barked a laugh.

“I _told_ you we didn’t have time for—” He waved an abstract hand between them. His gaze strayed to the bed behind Harry and back up to his face, and there was so much banked desire in his expression that Harry took an unbidden step closer. Malfoy swallowed. “Potter.”

Oh. As the world slowly righted itself around him, Harry became aware of the sharp pull in his midsection, indicating it was time to participate in one of the itinerary activities. Harry glared at Malfoy, thwarted again, but Malfoy’s face so perfectly matched his frustration that he couldn’t hold it. He leaned in a pressed another soft kiss against Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy made a small noise as he pulled back.

“Come on,” Harry said with a sigh. “Let’s go before it gets any worse. I don’t want to contemplate not being in shape for tonight.”

Malfoy gave him another hooded look, then took Harry’s hand as though it was something they’d done a million times, and led him away from temptation.

***

Apparently, being “led away from temptation” with Malfoy was synonymous with “having a hard-on that was so stiff you could carve a wand out of it and your balls ached for release until you basically wanted to die.”

The spa room was dim, lit with floating candles that lingered above a small, enchanted fountain with multi-coloured water in middle, bracketed by two padded tables. There was the subtle scent of sandalwood and musk lingering in the air, and there were gentle chimes which seemed to be coming from the walls. It was incredibly soothing until a loudly lilting, feminine voice rang directly in his ear, “Please remove your clothing and lay face-down on the table.”

Malfoy exchanged a startled look with him, indicating that he, too, had heard the instruction. 

There were privacy screens in each corner with towels draped over the tops, but Malfoy’s lips curled up in a wicked smile. He toed off his shoes and leaned down to peel off his socks before standing and letting his hands linger at his flies. He flirted with them teasingly before moving to undo them. Harry’s heart thrummed hard in each of his pulse points and he heard the slow _zziiippp_ of Malfoy’s trousers coming down like a lance of sensation straight to his cock. Malfoy stripped off his shirt, tousling his hair in the process, set it aside, and paused until Harry’s eyes strayed back to his. His face creased in a grin, lascivious and promising. He hooked his thumbs into the waistbands of his trousers and pants and inched them down, revealing a nest of light golden curls just before his cock popped free. 

Harry stared at it. It was half-hard and on the thick side, bouncing a bit before settling heavily against Malfoy’s balls. Malfoy continued removing his clothing and when he straightened, it bobbed a little to the left. Harry’s whole mouth flooded with saliva and as if Malfoy’s cock could read his thoughts—he wouldn’t put it past Malfoy to train his appendages in Legilimency—it twitched and lengthened a bit more, the pale pink flush of it darkening as he watched. His foreskin retracted a bit and a glint of moisture appeared at the slit.

Harry took a step forward.

“Your turn, Potter,” Malfoy said, voice husky. 

Harry dragged his eyes back up. Malfoy was breathing shallowly, quickly, and reached a hand to press a hand against his cock as if to tell it _no_.

Harry didn’t have time to be embarrassed, or think, or do much of anything other than what Malfoy had done—but faster. He felt choked with desire, as though it was something too big for him to swallow down, or something he couldn’t keep hidden in the depths of his chest any longer maybe, and he heard himself make a little broken noise of assent as he kicked off his shoes gracelessly, then took off the rest of his clothing in sharp jerky movements until they were both naked.

“Fuck, Potter.” Malfoy whispered it reverently, his eyes trained on Harry’s prick, which was—he was sure—as hard as it had ever been in his life. Malfoy’s own cock filled out, swelling further and rising as he looked at Harry.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, pained. He took another step forward, just as Malfoy did, and they met in the middle of the room, almost about to touch when that _stupid goddamn ridiculous lilting I’m going to kill Hermione and maybe Malfoy too_ voice chimed in his ear to remind him, “Please lay facedown on the table and prepare for relaxation like you have never known. You may cover yourself with the provided sheet. Your masseur will be in momentarily.”

Malfoy hissed, his hand straying to Harry’s bare waist, where his long fingers dug in viciously before he let go and stepped away, breathing hard. Harry’s own breath had grown fairly choppy too and he watched helplessly as Malfoy moved over to one of the tables and laid face down with a little moan. He tugged the sheet up over himself to the small of his back, which broke Harry’s concentration enough that he was able to walk over to the opposite table on clumsy legs and climb onto it. The friction of the fabric beneath him as he laid down wrenched a little mournful groan from his throat and it was only Malfoy’s whiplash voice telling him to _shut it_ and the stray thought that he most certainly did not want to come in front of the stranger about to arrive that made him still his hips from the automatic rut they were inclined to begin. He cast another wandless body regulating charm at himself and sighed in relief as his erection went down to manageable levels.

“What did you just do to yourself?” Malfoy asked. “You’ve been doing that for days. I can’t tell what you’re doing if you don’t use your wand.”

“Um.”

“Distract me, Potter.” Malfoy's voice was tense and he closed his eyes. “ _Please_.” 

Harry bit his lip. “Want me to, er, show you?”

“Whatever. Anything.”

Harry flicked his hand toward Malfoy, concentrating. Malfoy’s face, cheek against the table, creased for a second before easing. His eyes blinked open. “Oh.” He smirked. “Thank you. I don’t imagine they teach you _that_ in the DMLE.”

Harry flushed and looked away as the door clicked open. 

“Hello, gentlemen,” said a carefully modulated voice. “I am Healani and this is Kainoa. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

“Standard Swedish massage, correct?” Malfoy checked as though he got them all the time. He did, for all Harry knew. Malfoy placed his face in the hole in the table.

“Yes,” Healani murmured. “Although we do have some wizarding add-ons we could include, such as Magical Core massage, Memory Pathway relaxation, and the calming of your auras.”

The Memory Pathway thing made Harry cringe a bit, but he was found himself curious about the other two. He was about to say so when Malfoy crisply said, "No, thank you. Muggle will be fine.”

“Very well."

Harry sighed and put his face down, consoling himself that Malfoy was unlikely to, in here, at least, injure himself before nightfall.

***

“How’s your head?” Harry checked for the fifth time. Malfoy shot him a death-glare.

“I’m fine. I’ve been fine ever since I woke up. Stop—hovering. It’s weird, Potter.”

“Hey, I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Harry said, fighting back a smile. 

It was funny now, of course, but for a minute there he’d been genuinely frightened when Malfoy’s body had gone lax and hit the floor with such a thud. Fortunately, though, mild concussions turned out to be a level-two, and as soon as Harry had spelled him awake, Malfoy had healed the gash on his temple.

“Stop looking at me like that. It’s not like I could have predicted the masseur would be so incompetent as to not clean off the oil,” Malfoy grumbled.

“Incompetent?” Harry thought about the groaning sounds Malfoy had driven him mad by making as they’d been massaged. “It didn’t sound like that.”

“Any masseur worth their salt knows to spell off the oil,” Malfoy sniffed. “She didn’t even clean off the bottoms of my feet, which is why I fell.”

“And clipped your head on the table on the way down,” Harry reminded him, just to annoy. 

It worked. “It _wasn’t my fault_ , Potter. She should have—”

“She handed you a towel. You know, that _Muggle_ thing they use to dry off because they can’t use spells? Still want to try base-jumping?” Harry asked on the edge of a laugh.

Malfoy’s jaw clenched. “I’m going to base-jump if it kills me,” he muttered.

Harry felt a stab of real alarm. Despite whatever protective enhancements the hotel had in place, Malfoy's death seemed entirely possible at this point. He should have known Malfoy would take his teasing as a challenge. Still, he held his tongue as they Apparated to the flat cliff overlooking the round bowl of green and grey below them where a small group was waiting. 

The instructor acknowledged their arrival with a nod and began taking everyone through the paces of what they would be doing. Malfoy surprised Harry by actually paying attention and asking questions this time.

“So, what kind of feathers are the suits imbued with?”

“No feathers,” the instructor said, dismissing him with a smile.

“What do you mean, no feathers?” Malfoy called out loudly. “Even brooms have the essence of some sort of feather, even if it’s just in the wood polish. Everything that flies needs feathers. Oh. Or scales. Do they have scales, then?”

“No scales, either, Mr. Malfoy. This is a Muggle class.”

“Right, but—” Malfoy peered over the lip of the cliff. “It’s very steep. How are we to fly to the bottom?”

“ _If_ you’ll let me explain,” the instructor said, his patience clearly wearing thin, “I was just getting to that part. How steep it is shouldn’t be a factor; we have some very strong cushioning charms against the cliff face and at the bottom. The only real danger is if a gust of wind catches you, but you’re fully allowed to carry your wand out if that’s your preference.”

“My wand can’t make me fly,” Malfoy said softly to himself, confused, as the instructor went on to say that he was going to give an example. 

“I’ll Apparate straight back here,” he promised. “Just watch.”

And then he took a flying leap off of the very steep cliff.

Malfoy’s face went white as a sheet and even Harry was frankly appalled to watch the man hurtling toward the ground, arms outstretched with that weird little winged suit spread out around him. They lost sight of him after a moment—he must have dipped too close to the face of the cliff—but after another minute, he Apparated to the top again with a loud crack and a big smile. 

“Simple, right? Now who wants to volunteer to go first?”

“Potter?” Malfoy murmured as someone near the front raised their hand.

Harry leaned closer. “Yeah?”

“I’m not fucking doing that.”

Harry sagged. “Thank Merlin.”

Malfoy jerked his chin up, face set. “I don’t care if it’s cowardly, and I don’t care that you love all things Muggle, and I don’t care that I’m too much of a Slytherin to risk my own hide just to—”

“Hey, wait, Malfoy.” Harry stopped him with a hand on his wildly gesticulating arm. “I don’t think it’s cowardly. I don’t want to do it, either. I already told you that.”

Malfoy exhaled and slanted him and uncertain glance. “You were acting like I couldn’t.”

“Well,” Harry said with a wry smile, “to be fair…”

“Shut up, Potter.” He sounded aggravated, but Harry was betting that was just habit, because Malfoy’s mouth curved up in a small smile. 

“Are we _allowed_ to not participate?”

Malfoy thought about it. They walked several meters back from the group and sat down under a lone tree growing from the rocky surface of the ground. “I believe so. I think we’re only required to show up for activities; I don’t believe it says anything about us _doing_ them.”

“Good, then we’ll just watch.” They lapsed into silence for a few minutes as the class members began taking turns jumping off the mountain like lemmings. Harry shifted, uncomfortable in his suit. He unthinkingly Vanished it, leaving him in his more comfortable shorts and t-shirt. Malfoy eyed him. “Want me to do yours too?”

Malfoy snickered. “Haven’t I been saying that for days now?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but felt a smile play with his lips. “Malfoy.”

“I’m only wearing pants and a shirt underneath.”

“Oh.” While Harry didn’t have much of a problem with that, he didn’t really feature other people seeing it. Even if a dozen more had seen Malfoy in nothing but his ~~body paint~~ swimsuit the previous day. “I can transfigure them?”

“Get to it, then.”

Harry waved his wand a couple of times until the suit had changed and shrunk into a pair of what looked to be bicycle shorts. It was a little more revealing than he’d intended but Malfoy didn’t seem bothered by it. 

Quiet fell again, but for the sound of exhilarated screaming from people apparently unconcerned with the idea of their deaths. Harry wryly wondered for a moment if he should be ashamed of not setting a more Gryffindorian example but decided that risking his life on nearly a regualr basis for the last decade more than sufficed.

“Why did you say I love all things Muggle?” he asked to break Malfoy’s contemplative silence.

Malfoy’s eyes went wide. “Because you do.” His brow creased. “…don’t you?”

“Well, I don’t _hate_ anything Muggle—they have some pretty cool things, too. Electricity, for one. Television. Movies. Amusement parks. But I’m not, you know, Muggle-centric or anything,” Harry explained. “I’m mean, I’m an Auror, I live in a wizarding home with dozens of enchantments on it including the Fidelius charm, I use magic all the time. I wouldn’t do any of that if I didn’t _like_ it. I probably find magic even more… I don’t know, titillating than you do because you’ve been around it your whole life. Where’d you hear that?”

“From an unreliable source, apparently,” Malfoy said flatly. His cheeks darkened and his eyes were narrowed in thought. “One which I will find great pleasure in paying back for the deception.” At Harry’s expression, Malfoy’s face went bland. “I believe it was in an article Skeeter wrote.”

Harry snorted. “Hell, Malfoy, you should know by now not to trust her.” He paused as realisation sank in. “So this—” Harry said, waving an abstract hand, “—has all been a bid to… impress me with your love of Muggle things?”

The tips of Malfoy’s ears flushed to match his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “I often try new things,” he muttered. 

Harry wouldn't have been able to stop the grin from spreading across his face if he wanted to. He started laughing. “You did! You did want to impress me!”

“I like Muggle things now!” Malfoy snapped, glowering at him.

“You suck at Muggle things,” Harry chortled. “You’re one of the best flyers I’ve ever seen and you can barely walk twenty feet in Muggle nature without getting injured.” He managed to reign in the rest of his laughter at the sour look on Malfoy’s face. Harry nudged him with his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he added fondly. “I can show you some Muggle things that won’t get you killed when we get back home.”

“Back home?” Malfoy echoed. He sounded as though the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. A curl of awkward discomfort unspooled in Harry's stomach.

“Well, yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “If you want.”

Malfoy stared off into the distance with a slow, considering nod, but didn’t reply. 

Swallowing hard, Harry turned to watch the jumpers. He controlled his sudden urge to follow their lead.

***

Class went on for hours, and though he and Malfoy managed to continue talking, situated snugly away from the ledge under their tree, Harry was left with a vague, unsettling sense of uncertainty again. He’d thought—well, that he and Malfoy were maybe _dating_ now, though of course Malfoy had given him no real indication that’s what he wanted. Harry wondered if he could be the kind of person to shag someone casually and though the idea held little real appeal, every time he glanced at Malfoy the resounding answer of his body was _hell yes_.

They departed ways briefly when the class finally ended, just as the sun began to dip close to the horizon Harry sat in his room for after showering, trying to figure out what was going on. The real issue, Hermione had pointed out to him more than once, was that he’d spent so many years learning how to be direct and forceful when it was _necessary_ , and had never learned how to apply that same policy to his emotional life. He thought he’d done a reasonably good job with Malfoy but the truth of the matter was that he had no better idea of where he stood than before Malfoy had purchased his company for the weekend. 

With that thought in mind, Harry dressed quickly and headed to the door adjoining their rooms. He gave a quick knock, heard a rustle on the other side, and was greeted by a cautious-looking Malfoy a moment later.

“Potter?”

“I want to know why you never met me for the drink. Why you stopped being friendly,” he blurted out. “Before. Before we—”

Malfoy’s mouth tightened. “Ernie Macmillian,” he said coolly after only a moment’s hesitation.

Not expecting that, Harry shook his head. Malfoy turned and walked away toward the mini bar, grabbing a crystal glass off the shelf and filling it with icy water from his wand. Harry came into his room and closed the door as Malfoy drank for what seemed like a really long time.

“I was doing a rotation in Emergency that day,” Malfoy explained when he was finished. There was a droplet of water on his lower lip and he flicked his tongue out to catch it. “He said he had sprained his wrist. As I was passing by, he caught hold of me and told me that he couldn’t wait around all day for it to get fixed, because the two of you had a date that night and since he knew you and I were on better terms, would I be so kind as to do him a favour?”

Cold fury lit through Harry’s veins. He didn’t know which part of that to address, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “Ernie was a jealous, clingy little shit.”

“I gathered that,” Malfoy said dryly. “For one thing, his wrist was so mildly injured that it didn’t even qualify as a sprain, really.”

“Then why…?” 

“Because I didn’t know you were even _seeing_ him,” Malfoy spat, suddenly furious. “I had to check the papers to find out that you were, indeed, dating that arsehole.”

Baffled, Harry gave a helpless little shrug. “I still don’t see why it mattered. Okay, he was a git, but—”

Malfoy’s shoulders drew in and the cords of his throat stood out in sharp relief. “Because I thought you had agreed to go on a date with me,” he hissed, looking murderous. “Because I had asked you out for a date only to find you were already with someone. Because you obviously couldn’t let yourself look at the ex-Death Eater that way, even after I thought we had been flirting for a _goddamned year_.”

Something inside Harry faltered and cracked. He moved closer. “I didn’t know you were interested in men, then.”

“Well, I am,” Malfoy returned flatly. 

“I got that,” Harry said in a dry voice. 

Malfoy levelled cold eyes at him. “So that’s why I didn’t show up.”

“You were angry.”

Malfoy looked away. “So what now?”

Harry paused. “I’m here.”

“Yes, because I _bought_ you so I could—” he broke off bitterly. His face twisted. 

“Why? Why did you do that? And why did you walk away?”

Malfoy inhaled through his nose andlooked back at him impassively. “I’ve already talked enough without you holding up your side of the bargain.” He raised a snide, appraising eyebrow as if Harry was going to turn tail and run. “Well?”

There was a lot he still wanted to know,and it was important for them to hash this out, Harry knew. 

But fuck it.

He _wanted_ Malfoy, maybe more now than he had before his admission of anger and jealousy—and hurt, though he’d never say as much—and maybe it didn’t matter what other ulterior motives Malfoy had hidden up his designer sleeve. Maybe none of it mattered.

Harry mimicked him, raising a single eyebrow as well. “I’m _still_ here.”

Malfoy’s eyes darkened. He reached out and snagged a belt loop of Harry’s jeans with a single finger to tug him forward. “What do you want, Potter? Tell me,” he said in a tone of quiet command, bringing his other hand to Harry’s chin to tilt his face up slightly. Harry’s breath caught as their roles shifted. Suddenly, somehow, Malfoy was in control, in _charge_ , when only moments ago it had been different, and Harry wondered why that was so arousing.

“I want—I want you,” he said. Malfoy's eyes were steady and so very grey, and Harry hadn’t known until this moment how many different shades of the colour there were. 

Malfoy exhaled sharply enough to cut glass. He leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of Harry’s ear. “ _Tell_ me.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry whispered, heart thudding so loudly he could hear it, like the pounding roar of the ocean beyond their window. He closed his eyes against the thought, against how unbearably hard it made him. He gulped in some air. “I want you to put your cock in me. I want you to do whatever you want to me.”

“That should do it,” Malfoy murmured, satisfaction rich in his voice, before he caught Harry’s earlobe with his teeth. Harry groaned and reached out, but Malfoy caught his wrists firmly with one hand as his mouth coasted up Harry’s ear, his tongue investigating the ridges of it. 

Harry felt his neck wobble and gave up trying to hold it in place, instead letting it fall to the side as Malfoy’s head dipped lower so he could mouth at Harry’s throat. Harry’s eyelids fluttered; the sensations were light and seductive, Malfoy’s warm, wet mouth licking and nibbling his way over the tendons of Harry’s neck, down over his collarbone. Harry canted his hips closer, pressing his cock against Malfoy’s thigh. Malfoy chuckled and the vibration of his laugh danced along Harry’s skin.

He slid his free hand between them and deftly undid Harry’s jeans, then released Harry’s wrists and guided Harry’s palm flat against his own erection, shuddering when Harry squeezed it. It was firm and thick, and when Malfoy muttered, “ _Touch me_ ,” Harry felt something dazed unlock inside him. He scrambled to yank down Malfoy’s flies with shaking fingers, wanting nothing between them. Malfoy peeled Harry’s jeans and briefs down past his hips. Harry’s cock caught on the fabric for a moment before breaking free. He tugged Malfoy’s trousers down as well and pulled away from Malfoy’s exploring mouth to look at his cock, to look at their cocks together.

Without missing a beat, Malfoy wrapped a hand around his shaft, stepping nearer to line it up with Harry’s. He snaked his fingers around both of them in a tight clasp and Harry wanted to die from it, from feeling the soft skin of Malfoy’s prick against his own, covering the hard, perfect length of it. Malfoy’s slit was leaking already and when he dragged his fist over the two of them, Harry’s did too, spitting out a liberal amount of precome. 

Harry looked around frantically. “Bed,” he gasped out when his eyes landed on it.

“Not this time,” Malfoy muttered, his voice gone low and guttural in a way so different from his usual posh, precise tones. He squeezed their cocks together again, thumb firm against Harry’s crown as he swiped over it, gathering the moisture they were both releasing. 

“I need—I need—”

“We’ll get there,” Malfoy promised. He ducked his head into the curve of Harry’s neck again, clamping his teeth there and giving a hard suck, obscuring Harry’s vision from seeing Malfoy jerk their cocks in unison. Harry distantly heard the sob that tore from his throat. His balls tingled and drew up as Malfoy moved his hand faster. He could feel Malfoy’s prick throbbing against his own and he thrust against it, hips picking up the instinctive pace. 

Malfoy’s tongue was against his pulse, and his hand was around their cocks, his hair was in Harry’s eyes, and his fucking _scent_ , sharp and clean like lemongrass, was all around them, and Harry said, “ _Please_ ,” in a broken voice he didn’t recognise as his own just before Malfoy twisted his wrist over the crowns of their pricks, and Harry started to come. He rose up on the balls of his toes, each one of his muscles going tense, as his cock began to spasm with quick spurts of spunk shooting out. Malfoy made a stifled sound and worked his hand faster through Harry’s orgasm. Harry held onto him, hips pumping helplesslg as he felt Malfoy climax, too, covering them both with his release. 

Malfoy’s hand finally stilled. Slowly, he unwound his fingers from around them and looked back up into Harry’s eyes, giving a sly smile at whatever he saw there. Dazed, Harry blinked at him and licked his lips. Malfoy’s eyes tracked the movement. He lowered his mouth to Harry’s for a filthy, open-mouthed kiss before pulling away again. 

“Get undressed. Get on the bed,” he murmured. Harry obeyed the _thrill_ that ran through him as much as Malfoy’s order, kicking his jeans and pants all the way off. He pulled off his glasses and jerked his shirt off over his head, backing toward the bed.

Malfoy watched him carefully for a moment after Harry sat, as if to reassure himself that he was staying put, before removing his own clothes. He should have looked odd, perhaps, standing in the middle of the hotel room with his softening come-covered cock exposed and his trousers puddled around his knees, but Harry felt another surge of desire and his spent prick jerked in warning. 

When Malfoy was naked, he prowled over to where Harry sat and knocked Harry’s knees wider with his own, slotting himself between Harry’s thighs. His eyes gleamed with satisfied focus and his hands caught either side Harry’s jaw. “I’m going to _take you apart_ tonight, Potter.”

Harry swallowed, nodding mutely. 

Malfoy’s mouth ticked up at one side. “You really want me to, don’t you?” he breathed out, looking astonished and predatory, both. 

“Yes,” Harry choked out, giving himself over to it. 

Malfoy gave a little groan and then his mouth was on Harry’s again. He prised Harry's lips open with his tongue, licked into his mouth possessively. It was nothing gentle like before, but more of a targeted assault on Harry’s senses, which crashed together and whirled around him in a mind-bending swoop. Malfoy’s teeth bit at him, his lips sucking Harry's, and Harry was shaking from it as he kissed him back, from the taste of Malfoy's mouth and the snakes of pleasure curling through him. Malfoy pushed at his shoulders and when Harry fell back against the mattress, he climbed on top of him, body pressed flat over his. He levered his weight onto his forearms and dove back into the kiss, which was, frankly, the dirtiest of Harry’s life; Merlin, the things Malfoy could do with his _tongue_ …

Harry forced his eyes open as Malfoy’s mouth travelled again to just below his ear where the skin was sensitive and he stared up at the ceiling next to the wall where their rooms were connected. His mind was fuzzy, unable to catch up, but he heard himself slur out, “Wait a minute.”

Malfoy lifted his head; his lips were shiny. “What?”

Harry tried to orient himself. “Your furniture is back where it was.”

“Oh.” Malfoy chuckled and resumed sucking on Harry’s neck. He rolled his hips; his cock was beginning to swell again and Harry’s perked up in delighted response. “I thought you heard me wanking the other day, so I moved some furniture around before I came to your door.”

Harry tried to be outraged, but it was really difficult when Malfoy was frotting against him like that.

“I did,” he admitted blankly, thrusting upwards. “I wanked to it.”

Malfoy’s laugh was smothered by the way his face was buried in Harry’s skin and Harry was sure he heard his given name, murmured affectionately, before Malfoy’s lips latched over his neck again. He threaded a hand through Malfoy’s silky locks and gave a sharp tug, pulling him back into a kiss until they were both breathless and gasping for air. 

Malfoy’s cock was beginning to leak again, and Harry remembered with an exhilarated tremble of lust the way Malfoy came while Harry was stroking his stomach. He moaned and found Malfoy’s hip with his hand, fingers digging into the muscles of his buttocks, when suddenly Malfoy shifted them, one smooth roll, so that Harry was straddling him from above, his cock slapping against Malfoy’s belly.

“Suck my cock,” Malfoy said with a lewd smirk, and maybe it _was_ the order that got Harry going because he moaned again, helplessly, the sound wrenching from him as he looked down between them to deep flush of Malfoy’s erection, stiff and brushing against Harry’s as he wriggled his hips. 

“Yes, yeah, okay,” Harry panted. He began to slide down, but Malfoy caught him around the elbows with a wicked smile and guided Harry to turn around, to straddle him like _that_ , facing _away_ , arse spread practically in Malfoy’s _face_. And though Harry was no virgin, he felt his whole body blush at the rumble of approval that issued from Malfoy’s chest. 

“What are you waiting for, Potter?” Malfoy muttered, hands massaging hard on Harry’s arse cheeks. “It’s _right there_.”

Harry looked down and, indeed, Malfoy’s cock was right there, jutting out from Malfoy’s body beneath Harry’s chin. He scooted back further, the tip of his erection dragging over Malfoy’s chest, and grasped the base of Malfoy’s prick. He took a deep breath and swallowed him down.

“ _Unnnhhh._ ” The sharp, whining sound behind him made Harry smile around a mouthful of Malfoy’s cock, which was thick and heavy on his tongue. It was long, too, butting against the back of his throat. Harry relaxed it, letting Malfoy’s cock slide deeper, and Malfoy’s hips juddered as Harry pulled his mouth back to swirl his tongue around the glans. 

He was good at blowjobs, he knew, a rush of aroused power shooting through him at Malfoy’s inelegant thrusting, at the way Malfoy’s hands tightened painfully on his arse. But then he heard a slurping sound and a wet finger was suddenly circling his rim, and he paused in his ministrations as Malfoy breached him with barely any warning other than that light touch. He slid his finger inside Harry, all the way down to the joint of his hand. Harry choked for a second, pulling off Malfoy with a wild gasp. 

“Don’t _stop_ , Potter,” Malfoy said huskily, sounding irritated and half-mad. He pumped his finger pointedly. Harry’s senses blitzed out; he dropped his forehead against Malfoy’s thigh. Malfoy added another wet finger, and Harry’s thighs clenched from the stretch of intrusion, the perfect, indelicate finger-fucking that had him leaning backward into it. “Keep _going_. Look at you, you’re practically gagging for it, aren’t you,” Malfoy continued, smooth and breathy at the same time, “I bet you just loved choking on my cock. If everyone could see you now.”

Malfoy’s fingers picked up speed. He jabbed into Harry repeatedly and Harry slid his knees lower to be able to rub his cock against Malfoy’s chest as he opened his mouth again and sucked Malfoy back in. Malfoy hissed and Harry put all of his splintering focus on Malfoy’s prick throbbing against his tongue, rather than on the feel of Malfoy screwing his fingers into Harry with a rough twist. Harry sucked harder, hollowing out his cheeks as he pulled Malfoy deeper, and he felt Malfoy’s harsh exhale gust hotly against his arsecheek. He planted a hand on the mattress between Malfoy’s legs to steady himself, reaching up to cup Malfoy’s testicles with the other. He rolled them tightly and gave an awkward tug, pleased when Malfoy’s cock jerked in his mouth.

“Are you ready for me?” Malfoy asked lowly, his fingers stilling.

Harry gave another hard suck, tonguing back Malfoy’s foreskin before removing his mouth. “Malfoy…”

“Go on then,” Malfoy said. He pulled his fingers out, far more delicately than he had driven them in, Harry's inner muscles tightening around them. “Get up. On your back.”

Harry lifted up, climbing off of Malfoy and turning around. He hesitated. Malfoy had an imperious look on his face, his eyes heavy-lidded and almost drowsy but for the hungry glint in them. He rose onto his elbows and raised an eyebrow as if to say, _I’m waiting._

Harry cleared his throat. His cock was fiercely hard, aching, and he gave it a distracted stroke. “It’s supposed to be easier on the hands and knees for the first time.”

Malfoy snorted. “You’ll never get me to believe you’re a virgin after what you just did with your tongue.”

Harry smiled faintly, surprised to feel so _pleased_ even as his cock twitched warningly in his grasp. “I’ve never bottomed.”

There was a split second—just—when Malfoy’s grey eyes widened, and then he moved so suddenly Harry didn’t even register it until Malfoy was pressing him back into the soft down of his duvet, hands wandering all over him proprietarily. He pressed a hard kiss against Harry’s mouth, then another and another until Harry was dizzy again, arching up into his touch, their cocks coming together in the slide and stroke of Malfoy’s smooth thrusts against him. 

Malfoy fit himself between Harry’s thighs again, coming up on his knees. “ _How_ ,” Malfoy demanded against his ear, illiciting a hard shiver from Harry, “can that be _possible_? You were _made_ to be fucked. I’m going to make it so good, Potter, you won’t be able to walk for a _week_.”

Malfoy hooked his hands beneath Harry’s ankles, lifting them up to rest against his shoulders. Somewhere in the distant corners of his mind, Harry realised it was uncomfortable, being nearly bent in half, but the thought was already floating away as Malfoy skimmed blunt, gentle fingernails against the sensitive skin over Harry’s balls before thumbing his own cock down and rubbing the head of it against Harry’s entrance. Harry’s body quaked; with anticipation or fear, he couldn’t really say. 

Malfoy murmured a little spell, and then he was pressing, _pressing_ inside, deeper and _deeper_ , steady and implacable, his shaft slippery with conjured lube. Harry held his breath, Malfoy’s bright, determined gaze locking with his own, his jaw tight and teeth gritted. And still there was more, inch by bloody inch, until Harry felt stretched to breaking, filled to the point where real pain threatened, his nerve endings alight with sensation. Finally, Malfoy settled, seated fully in him, his cock throbbing, his pubic hair crisp against Harry’s backside.

He gave a slow, experimental roll of his hips and Harry finally exhaled in a rush. It was… good. He even liked that it hurt, a little. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Harry licked his lips; he wriggled his arse a bit to get more comfortable. “Yeah. You can—you can go.”

Malfoy chuckled, quiet and dark. He started thrusting, dragging and pushing his cock in and out part way, slow but not gentle. Harry groaned in response, hot licks of pleasure lancing through him, like an itch that was just beginning to get scratched. After too long, hours or days maybe, Malfoy let one of Harry’s ankles slide off his shoulder and that was even better, because Harry was able to gain some traction on the bed with his foot. He lifted his hips, trying to take Malfoy deeper. Malfoy’s teeth flashed at him in a feral smile; he reached between them and stroked Harry’s leaking cock./p>

Malfoy broke their gaze to look down and Harry had to close his eyes because even the thought of the visual—them, connected—was too much as Malfoy pulled at his prick in time with the pumping of his hips. 

“Look at how much you need it, Potter,” Malfoy said, voice hard and cracking. “You take it so well. How much of my cock do you want?”

“All of it,” Harry gritted out, blind with need. “Give it to me harder. C’mon, Malfoy, I know you can do better than that.”

Malfoy growled at the challenge. His hand tightened on Harry’s cock almost painfully and his hips broken into a pounding, brutal rhythm as he slammed his cock into Harry over and over, his fist working Harry’s erection. “I _knew_ ,” he gasped out. “I _knew_ the only thing better than fighting you would be fucking you. Merlin, what would everyone say,” he added, punctuating each word with a vicious thrust and swivel of his hips, “if they could see that their Saviour liked to be the one who took it, liked to be the one who got stuffed full of cock rather than the other way ‘round?”

Harry shuddered, the sharp, cruel perception of Malfoy’s jibes going straight to his cock, which had gone deep red and was dribbling heavily in Malfoy’s fast hand. 

“What would they say,” Malfoy panted, “if they knew you were taking it from _me_?”

All of it was too much: the wet, slapping sound of sweaty flesh on flesh, Malfoy’s balls smacking into Harry’s arse on his deep, savage instrokes, the merciless rubbing of Malfoy’s cock against his prostate, his hand torturing Harry’s cock. But even hotter was the idea that people would _know_ , would know that Harry liked _taking_ it, taking it from _Malfoy_ , that he wanted it _all the time_. Harry moaned and came hard, shooting long ribbons of spunk over Malfoy’s fist and his own stomach, writhing under Malfoy, his body curling in on itself for several long, glorious moments of white-hot pleasure before falling back bonelessly against the mattress.

“ _God_ ,” Malfoy groaned out. Harry could feel the spasms of his arse around Malfoy’s cock and Malfoy went at him even faster, even harder, staring down at Harry almost furiously as his hips stuttered. He thrust twice more, grinding his cock in as deep as he could get, and held himself in place, shuddering as he came too, gripping Harry’s thigh so roughly he was sure to have bruises in the morning. Harry felt the splash of wet warmth inside of him and he tightened his hole. Malfoy made a broken, needy sound and muttered, “ _Damn you, yes,_ ” before collapsing over him, cock still pulsing deep inside Harry as he finished.

***

Harry stared down at the outline of Malfoy’s face in the darkened room, his brow knitted in consternation.

After they’d finished—the first time—they’d fallen asleep briefly. When Harry woke up to stumble, limping, to the loo, Malfoy was waiting for him when he opened the door. He pressed Harry into the bathroom and had him again, bending him over the counter and taking Harry with quick, hard strokes.

They showered together, exhausted under the warm spray of the water, but even then Malfoy wouldn’t stop touching him, palming Harry’s soft cock, letting his hands wander over the curve of his spine and his ribcage, slipping an exploratory finger into his arse, kissing him until Harry’s lips started to go numb. Harry was stunned by the force of his desire, rearing up again and again; he couldn’t fathom the way he kept responding, even when his body was sore and deplete of fluids, so he didn’t even try. He just let Malfoy go at him again and again, working him open with his fingers and cock, stretching Harry into incomprehensible positions, dragging him—screaming, the last time—to climax while whispering dirty things in his ear as though they were secrets or insults when he must've been able to see perfectly well that Harry wanted to die from sheer lust whenever Malfoy said anything to him in those dark, patrician tones. 

“ _Everyone thinks you’re so in control, Potter? But you just needed someone to take you in hand, didn’t you?_ ” Malfoy whispered to him before falling to his knees in the shower. “ _Ride me hard and show me what a slag you can be for it_ ,” Malfoy ordered as he’d lowered Harry onto his cock in bed. “ _I could sell these Pensieve memories to anyone who thinks you’re still the perfect little Golden Boy,_ ” he groaned out, slapping his palm down against Harry’s arsecheek for the fifth time in a row, the sound ringing out with a loud crack as Malfoy ploughed him hard, until Harry came completely untouched, on his hands and knees on the floor in the middle of the room.

And it had all felt so _good_ , so shamefully, deliciously _good_ , like Malfoy had really known what he’d needed instinctively, not treating him with reverence or kid gloves but solely absorbed in finding his own release and yanking Harry—sometimes literally—to his. 

They had ordered food sometime after midnight—apparently, they had been distracted enough to ignore the pull of the activity charm—and then Malfoy had sucked him off again, softly, mouth careful and gentle against Harry’s overstimulated prick until Harry came for the final time in a slow, melting climax. Malfoy hadn’t even been hard, but he’d given Harry a knowing smirk before laying down beside him and falling asleep.

And all of it—the sex, the talk, the lack of control, even the bloody vacation itself—made sense in those isolated hours as they wound around each other, breathing against and mapping out each other’s bodies. What made less sense was that Harry had woken up, wanting nothing more than to slide down Malfoy’s body and take him in his mouth, and all he could feel were those same waves of revulsion from the previous night, repelling him back. 

Malfoy rolled over onto his side in his sleep, to the opposite end of the bed, and Harry wanted to reach out and coast his fingers along the dip in his spine, but even that was too much because Malfoy’s magic was sending giant _do not touch_ signals at him, and suddenly everything Malfoy had said to him over the course of the evening took on an ominous cast. 

He didn’t think Malfoy would do anything with his newfound knowledge, not really. Everything he had learned over the course of the last few days—years—had proven that Malfoy had changed. But there was a niggle of fear right at the base of his skull, reminding him that Malfoy hadn’t agreed to anything more than this. A hundred thousand galleons was a lot of money to spend to satisfy long-held curiosity or prove a point, but it wasn’t as if Malfoy didn’t have it to spare. Harry might even have done the same, had their roles had been reversed.

He could wake Malfoy, he knew. Could call his name or send a charm from his wand to ring in his ear. They could talk now that they had got the first wave out of their system; Malfoy had even agreed. Except that they were still _here_ , on the island, away from real life and responsibilities and old grudges, and Harry didn’t want to hear a promise made only because this trip—this night—had a dream-like quality to it that Malfoy wanted to extend. 

Alternatively, Harry didn’t want to hear Malfoy tell him that he _didn’t_ want to pursue anything more between them. It would just make things awkward, and would taint all of his memories of this time away.

Carefully, Harry slid out of bed and headed over to the desk, where he pulled some parchment and a quill and wrote a quick note. 

A quick charm told him that it was nearing four in the morning. Their time was technically over and Harry didn’t think he’d have any trouble procuring an early International Portkey at extra cost.

He took one last look at Malfoy’s lanky form, covered only by a hotel sheet, and walked back to his own room.

***

Grimmauld Place felt unnervingly empty as he entered. Kreacher had obviously cleaned in his absence—although his version of cleaning was basically just putting Harry’s things where he couldn’t find them—and all of the lights were turned down low.

Harry set his bags down and wandered into the sitting room. He already felt it creeping in, that ache of loneliness that he’d gotten so good at ignoring during his occasional sexual encounters, during every boring date and every dinner where he had to watch Ron and Hermione be sickening with one another. The loneliness that had seemed to fade, without him even realising, over the holiday with Malfoy.

He sat down, waves of weariness washing over him; the sun was still high in the sky, but he’d gone for over a day at that point without any real sleep, after lots (and lots and lots and _lots_ ) of activity that he was going to be feeling for days. Harry settled himself against his sofa cushions and wondered if he’d done the right thing by leaving. Either way, he’d have an answer: silence or eventual contact. He sighed and closed his eyes for just a second…

…Only to be woken up by the thunderous sound of knocking on his door. Harry blinked and looked around; it was fully dark outside. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting upright, his neck dangling back at an awkward angle. His whole body felt stiff and uncomfortable and it took him a minute to lever himself off the sofa and head to the door.

“If you’ll just give me a minute; I have a key!” Hermione was muttering on the other side of it.

“Well then find it,” Malfoy snapped back. Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and there was another irate _THWACK, THWACK, THWACK_ , like the flat of a hand trying to knock his door out of its frame. Harry pulled the door open and swiftly ducked out of the way as Malfoy almost smacked him in the face, pulling the motion at the last second.

“Hermione? Malfoy?”

Malfoy shoved past him, stalking into the room with long, angry strides, his robes fluttering behind him. Hermione stepped in, too, looking both apologetic and irritated. She was wearing, of all things, a trench coat, wrapped tightly around her. “Sorry, Harry.”

“ _What_ ,” Malfoy demanded, coming up to him and shaking Harry’s note in his face, “the _fuck_ does this _mean_?” He looked down at it, his lip curling in disgust. “You ‘had a nice time’? I should ‘owl you’ if I was ‘still interested in having that drink’?” He crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it at Harry’s feet as Harry stood there in astonishment. 

Malfoy carded his hands through his hair, looking dishevelled and more furious than he had when he’d broken Harry’s nose on the train in sixth year. “Where do you keep your liquor?” he gritted out. Harry raised a finger to silently point at the drinks cabinet hidden in the wall. Malfoy flicked his wand at it; the cabinet opened and he poured himself a hefty drink.

“What’s happening here?” Harry whispered to Hermione, who huffed and opened her mouth. But it was Malfoy who answered, laughing angrily as he knocked back his drink in one long swallow.

“You,” Malfoy said, pointing his empty glass at Harry threateningly, “seem to have some _errant_ ideas about what happened last night. I’m appalled that I’m even a little surprised, Potter. I mean, really. Leaving me to wake up in a cold bed? It’s not even original.”

“You left me to wake up alone, too!” Harry blurted, looking for something to object to. 

“Not after I’d fucked you raw,” Malfoy sneered at him. Hermione squeaked next to Harry and he put a hand over his eyes for a second to get his bearings as Malfoy continued his rant. “ _Some of us_ know the proper etiquette to bedding someone. Especially when it’s—when it’s… When it was... like that,” he finished more quietly. He pressed his lips into a hard line.

“I left you a note.”

Hermione whipped her head to look at him censoriously. “Oh, Harry!”

“What!” Harry burst out. “What the bloody hell is going on here? Why are you so _angry_ , Malfoy? You wouldn’t even answer me when I asked if you wanted to see each other when we got back! And I tried to wake you up by—well, I was going to wake you up and your magic wouldn’t even let me near you! And _why the hell are you here, Hermione?_ ” he finished on a roar of pure, bewildered frustration.

“You didn’t tell him,” she said flatly to Malfoy instead of answering. “You should have.”

Malfoy glared at her. “I was going to. But he left. So thank you for the idea, Hermione; you’ll forgive me if I don’t listen to your advice in the future.”

Hermione?

Wait a minute.

Harry glanced back and forth between the two of them. Hermione was suddenly suspiciously silent and Malfoy was staring at the floor in a way that made Harry wonder if he was trying to set fire to his house. 

“What advice?”

“You know what?” Hermione said, taking a step back. “Draco just needed to know where you lived and I’m a secret keeper and I’ve done my job and I’m no longer needed. I’ll go, now.”

Harry caught her arm and narrowed her eyes. “What. Did. You. Do.”

She yanked away from him and tossed her hair the way she always did when she was sure she was right. “I organised a charity ball to benefit the families of Muggles who still experiencing emotional and financial fallout from a war they knew nothing about. And I was dragged out of bed tonight for my efforts.”

“Out of bed?” Harry said incredulously, taking a glance at the clock. “It’s barely eight.”

“Exactly,” she snipped, frost in her voice. She hugged her trench coat a little tighter around her. “And Ron’s not best pleased.”

Malfoy smirked meanly. “All the better.”

Exasperated, Harry threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t even—what the hell—can somebody explain—” Harry broke off as too many questions crowded his throat, rendering him incapable of speech.

Hermione drew a deep breath. She pursed her mouth, looking only a little guilty, and squared her shoulders. “I love you, but I did tell you to read the contract,” she informed Harry, calmer in the face of his descent into madness. She turned back to Malfoy. “Take care of this or I swear I’ll use every tool at my disposal to make your life miserable at work.”

“You’re _not my supervisor,_ Hermione,” Malfoy snarled.

She folded her arms over her chest. “Curse Damage and Spell Damage is the _exact same ward_ and I was there first and my scores were better than yours and I’m responsible for—you know what? I’m not having this conversation again.” She sniffed. “I’ll see you later, Harry,” she said with great dignity. She promptly ruined the effect by turning and fleeing his house to Apparate away from the street.

“Hermione!” he yelled, furious, his voice drowned out by the loud crack of Apparition. His breath left him with a whoosh of impotent frustration and he turned back to Malfoy. “ _Well?_ ”

“She beat me by two points,” Malfoy said sullenly. “And was hired a week before me. And of course they’re going to give her charge of patient files and scheduling; she’s a war hero, I’m a Death Eater.”

“Not what I’m asking, Malfoy,” Harry said tersely. He paused and softened his voice. “You’re not a Death Eater.”

“For all that it matters,” Malfoy said bitterly, turning away to pour himself another drink.

Harry walked over to him and took the glass from his hand. It felt good to be in his presence, even if he was vibrating with angry energy, and Harry followed his instincts to touch Malfoy’s cheek. Malfoy’s gaze flashed to his and darted away. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry said quietly. “I was expecting an owl in a few days. Or not at all.”

Malfoy gave a humourless laugh. “Because we had such a _nice_ time?”

Harry grimaced. “All right, I’m not the best with words. Should I have written that your cock changed my life, then?”

“It would have been a start,” Malfoy grumbled. 

Harry sighed. “Okay, so I’ve figured out that Hermione somehow set this up. Are you going to fill me in on the rest?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes but grudgingly said, “She was the emergency firecall I received yesterday morning. She’d gotten your letter.”

“Okay…?”

Malfoy looked at him as though he were going continue; instead, he reached out and curled a hand around the back of Harry’s skull, pulling him in for a hard kiss. Harry groaned at the touch of Malfoy’s mouth, following automatically when Malfoy slung an implacable arm around his waist and jerked him in closer. 

Malfoy slipped his hand into the back of Harry’s jeans, fingers warm and pressing against the top of Harry’s arse and Harry pulled his head back breathlessly. Malfoy followed and caught his mouth again. He reached between them and began undoing Harry's flies. 

“Malfoy,” Harry protested weakly. 

“I wanted to kiss you that night after dinner,” Malfoy muttered crossly as he got Harry’s jeans open. He shoved a hand in and curled it immediately around Harry’s half-hard cock, giving it a few short, quick pulls until it swelled. “Your magic told me _no,_ told me that that very thought of it _disgusted you_. I thought I had got it all wrong, and then you were such a sanctimonious prat the next morning,” he said hoarsely. He slowed his hand but increased pressure, moving his fist along the length of Harry’s shaft until Harry began fucking it helplessly. 

“I wanted you to kiss me,” Harry panted, hips pumping mindlessly. “You didn’t. You just walked away.”

“Repelled by the contract,” Malfoy ground out. He shoved Harry’s jeans down to his thighs with his free hand. “Merlin, look at that,” he breathed. 

Harry glanced down. The head of his cock was visible, flushed and hard, in Malfoy’s closed fist. Malfoy gave him another slow pull and Harry closed his eyes. 

Malfoy took his hand away but before Harry could mourn its loss, he spun him around and pressed the long length of his body against Harry’s back. Harry could feel the stiff press of Malfoy's erection through his robes and Malfoy gave a slow thrust. He walked Harry forward toward the couch and lowered him down to his knees. Harry let his head fall forward weakly, even as he inched his knees wider in anticipation. 

“The contract,” Malfoy informed him tensely, “stated that any sort of implied consent was overruled by drinking or lack of consciousness.” Harry heard the rustle of fabric as Malfoy spoke and his arms began to shake as he propped himself, bent, over the sofa.

“That’s good, I guess,” Harry groaned out, Malfoy kneeling behind him. Malfoy leaned in, his mouth close to Harry’s ear, his body draped against his back. 

“It’s why I couldn’t kiss you,” he said again, voice unsteady. “God, Potter—”

And then he was pulling back, spreading Harry’s cheeks with his hands. There was a heavy pause and Malfoy murmured, “You didn’t heal yourself,” blankly, like he couldn’t believe it.

Harry flushed. “No.” His arse was sore, every part of him was, really, but he’d wanted to—to hold on to that feeling of being taken by Malfoy, of having been had by him. Malfoy made a choked sound before Harry felt a quick cleansing charm zip through him, quickly replaced by the feel of Malfoy’s tongue, soft and wet and searching on his swollen rim. Harry cried out, reaching down with one hand to wrap a frantic hand around his leaking prick. Malfoy gave a low hum of aroused approval and Harry began to wank in earnest.

Malfoy was gentle this time, latching careful lips around his entrance and sucking with slow deliberation while his tongue breached Harry _just_ slightly, _just enough_ that Harry made a strangled sound and arched back into it, his hand working in steady strokes over himself. Malfoy’s tongue moved with quick pumps inside of him, setting all of his nerve endings on fire. 

He was getting close when Malfoy drew away abruptly and rose back up onto his knees. Harry gasped out in complaint, but slowed his rapidly moving hand as Malfoy whispered another incantation, pressing his slick cock between Harry’s buttocks. Harry braced himself but Malfoy simply dragged his erection between Harry’s arse cheeks, up and down, each slow, rolling thrust brushing firmly over his puffy, sensitive hole. He reached around and placed his hand over Harry’s, picking up the same pace as before as he rocked his hips back and forth. Harry groaned, devastated by the pleasure of the heated slide. He clenched his cheek and Malfoy cursed, his hand over Harry’s cock growing tighter as it twisted on the downstroke. Malfoy growled, “Just _try_ to sneak out again, you bastard,” and Harry shouted and came all over the front of his sofa.

Malfoy grunted, hips jerking hard. Harry felt long, warm stripes shooting across his lower back. They dripped back down into his crack as Malfoy fell against him, cock pulsing between Harry’s cheeks. Malfoy wrapped both arms around Harry’s ribcage and hugged his body close against his chest as he rode out the last of his orgasm with tiny, involuntary thrusts.

They rested like that for a minute before Malfoy slowly pried himself off of Harry to collapse on his arse on the floor beside him. Harry turned—it felt like all of his bones had liquified—and sat down, too. 

“So,” Harry wheezed, “I couldn’t wake you up because—”

“I hadn’t given you permission,” Malfoy supplied grimly. “Not the same way you’d given me.”

“But I, er, gave you a handjob without express permission,” Harry pointed out, voice steadier as he got his breath back.

“No, you didn’t.” Malfoy smirked. “Think about it.”

Harry did; he remembered the brush of Malfoy’s cock against his knuckles, the dizzying spear of heat when Malfoy told him to _go faster_. Remembered the come dripping off the back of his hand, not his palm.

He snorted.

“Then you would have wanted me to…”

“Potter, I spent six hours fucking you stupid in as many ways as I could think of at the moment. Yes. I would have wanted you to,” Malfoy said, pulling an aggravated face. “Or at least wake me the bloody fuck up before you left like a one night stand who was ashamed of his conquest.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry said quietly. “Ashamed, I mean. But I didn’t want to push you into—you didn’t seem to want to go out with me when we got back.”

Malfoy slanted him a look. “I thought you perhaps might need to think it over when we returned.”

Pleasure bubbled up in Harry, warm and rich. He picked up Malfoy’s hand and laced their fingers together. “I thought about it. I’m in if you are. I figured, maybe, it was just—curiosity, on your part. Attraction. Get it out of the way.”

Malfoy glanced down at their linked hands. He blinked a couple of times. “You don’t spend as much as I did without higher hopes than that,” Malfoy admitted as though it pained him to do so. 

“A lot of other people bid, too,” Harry said. 

“I assure you, Potter,” Malfoy returned wryly, “that every single one of them was hoping they’d walk away with a boyfriend, too.”

Harry’s eyebrows climbed, and he tried really, really hard for a moment not to smile. He failed. “Boyfriend?”

Malfoy huffed and let go of his hand.

Harry laughed. “So how does Hermione play into it?”

“That cow,” Malfoy spat out. Harry knocked him in the shoulder and gave him a reproving look. Malfoy frowned at him but shrugged. “She _may have_ figured out that I was—a bit—interested in you after I asked some inadvertent—and very casual—questions while we were on lunch. And then of course she mentioned that you were going to be up for auction, and that you weren’t seeing anyone, and that you were still angry about me not showing up for that drink. And then she told me how dear all Muggle things were to your heart, and that you enjoyed Muggle activities.”

Equal parts appalled and impressed, Harry gaped at him. “You almost died a dozen times because of that!”

“I know,” Malfoy said loftily, nose in the air. “And don’t think I won’t be repaying her for it.”

“Get in line. I’ve got dibs on killing her.” Harry told him. He snorted. "Did she get you that Hawaiian shirt, too?”

“You thought it was nice!” Malfoy said. Harry laughed.

Malfoy scowled but leaned his head onto Harry’s shoulder. Harry looked at it in surprise for a moment, then dropped a kiss onto Malfoy’s silky hair. 

“Definitely killing her,” Harry decided, “but I’ll get her a present, first.” Malfoy huffed out a chuckle and Harry continued, “I meant what I said, you know. About taking you to Muggle things.”

Malfoy made a disgusted noise. “We’re _wizards_ ,” he said, going prim and snotty. 

“Not every Muggle activity will end up with you injured,” Harry said, and thought, _I hope_. “As long as you let me plan them.”

“And pay for them, too,” Malfoy said. “I think I’ve done my fair share of that for the foreseeable future.”

Harry grinned. “What can I say? I’m not a cheap date.”

Malfoy lifted his head. His face was soft but there was something challenging about the look in his eye.

“Lucky I could afford you, then,” he said. He leaned in to press an indecent, open-mouthed kiss to Harry’s lips. The room spun blurry around him as he leaned into it and kissed Malfoy back.

“And, Potter, just so you know…” Malfoy’s voice lowered to a purr that made Harry’s skin tingle all the way down to his toes; he smiled breathlessly, Malfoy's eyes gleaming at him. “I plan on getting my money’s worth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That nude calendar Ron joked about in the first chapter?  
> Yeah, there's a(n unrelated) drarry fanfic about that, which is hysterically funny and exceedingly hot. ;)  
> The Full Monty by magpie_fngrl
> 
> Also, for those of you who are curious, 100,000 Galleons is about 2.5 million dollars.  
> Which is a steal, if you ask me. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are lovely! 
> 
> And come find me on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com), if you like, 'cause I'm over there now, too! :) *waves*


End file.
